


These Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Faux) Incest, Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshole Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Explicit Language, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Jealousy, M/M, Non PC Terms, Orphan Stiles, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Stiles Is An Argent, Wolfsbane Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His real father was a hero who’d died in the line of fire, pun and all intended there.  Chris was a hunter who had trouble sticking to a Code that could fit on the back of a matchbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/gifts).



> This is an AU and even canon elements you might recognize are tweaked, most notably timeline-wise. That timeline, man, it gets _messy_. (Very true to the show that way, no?) For example, _both_ Stiles and Allison are seventeen when the Argents return to Beacon Hills and they come back in the summer between school years, rather than during, and the bus driver dies in the bus rather than the hospital and other random little things like that. Basically, I make a lot of shit up. (I mean, wolfsbane poisoning totally requires ice baths… right? I made up the symptoms and how quickly it affects the poisoned individual because, well, the show doesn’t worry about reality there so why should I let it trip _me_ up? If you are poisoned with wolfsbane, please do not follow these steps. It will not lead you to a cure. Though maybe some hot sex before you expire? Worth it, right?)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, [Llama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama). I see you around fandom all over the place and you seem like a truly lovely person so I tried to create something that hit as many of your likes as I could! I’m not sure how well I did with that, considering you are much more adventurous in both kinks and pairs than I *g*, but I definitely (and happily) broke outside my comfort zone a little to meet you halfway.
> 
> A million thanks go out to my pre-readers who were nothing but relentlessly positive about this: [emeraldawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldawn) (who actually came up with this idea and _made me_ get - and _stay_ \- excited about it) and [Barbayat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat) (who is constantly straying into new pairs and just slash in general for me). I love you two _so much_. As well as my beta, who is absolutely one of the best people out there – reading through a pair that wasn’t really their bag and rocketing through it to boot – [Jonjo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo). Any remaining mistakes are my own because I couldn't stop *clenches fingers in frustration* fiddling.
> 
>  
> 
> Title comes from _Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening_ , by Robert Frost:
> 
> "These woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.”

Stiles could feel the dog’s hot, panting breaths on his neck and jaw.  Something wet and warm dripped down onto his throat and disgust soured in his gut.  He kept the gun barrel shoved in its mouth, keeping it from closing its jaws on his skin but he could feel his arms beginning to buckle, his muscles not up to the task of holding off a rabid animal more than twice his size. 

A gust of warm, snarling breath ruffled his hair while Stiles’ forearms started to shake.  He felt them beginning to give just as the wolf went sprawling with an injured whine.

A callused hand thrust down in front of his face and Stiles uncurled his stiff fingers from the rifle and clasped it.  He turned to look at the wounded animal while he was hauled up onto unsteady feet, dropping the hand as soon as he was on sure footing.  There was an arrow shoved into its heaving side, just below the joint of its leg, and it was letting out pained, whuffing breaths.  The unnatural angle of the shaft said it had been stabbed in rather than shot.

He glanced down at the hand that hadn’t gripped his and realized it was bloody.

It led to him missing the free one coming up and yanking his chin forward.  The fingers dropped to his windpipe, pressing in just enough to be a discomfort, the thumb keeping his chin up.  “How many times have I told you to _think_ before you go in guns blazing?”  Some of the words hit Chris’ gritted teeth too hard for anything but context to make them clear.

Stiles jerked his neck out of his father’s grip.  “This is, what?” Stiles asked harshly.  “Lucky number seventeen?”  Chris’ expression didn’t change and Stiles decided, “Let’s go with that.”  He nodded to himself and then cobbled together an exaggeratedly contrite look.  “Oh man, you’re totally right, _Dad_.  I should’ve waited for the cavalry,” he said, tone dripping with mockery.  “There’s a really good chance that this will never happen again.”

He noticed the way Chris flinched when Stiles called him ‘Dad.’  Which was why he’d done it.  Chris wasn’t his dad and Stiles hadn’t called him it without contempt in years.  His real father was a hero who’d died in the line of fire, pun and all intended there.  Chris was a hunter who had trouble sticking to a Code that could fit on the back of a matchbook, too much like his own father and his psychotic sister for Stiles’ comfort.

He hadn’t always been so willing to break his own rules but then Victoria had been bitten by a half-mad Omega and he’d put her down like the animal she would have become.  At her explicit request.  Stiles had always known Victoria was unhinged but he’d never pegged her as suicidal.

He was just glad Alli hadn’t decided to lose her shit over it as she easily could have.  Stiles had stuck to her side like glue, refusing to let her become any more like Kate than she already was.

Speaking of.  Alli broke through the tree line, her bow raised skyward.  She spared a quick, appraising glance for Stiles and, after assessing he was uninjured for herself, she walked up to the wolf and put a bolt in its head.  It barely had time to make a final squeak before its eyes went dull.

They all watched as it went from dying to departed.

A hand closed over his shoulder and fingers dug in deep enough that Stiles knew he’d carry the bruises from the grip with him.  He elbowed Chris in the chest, just hard enough to shock him into letting go.

“I told you to wait,” Chris snarled.

Stiles was struck by the visceral memory of turning eight-years-old, when they’d still had the farm in Loup City, Nebraska.  His father – back when he’d actually considered Chris to be one, a do-over of sorts – had decided to take him hunting, just the two of them.  The smell of straw and manure had been thick in the barn and he’d watched his father’s capable hands pull the rifle out of the gun case.  He’d loaded the shells carefully and asked Stiles if he knew why they’d dedicated themselves to hunting, why his grandfather called it a ‘duty’ while the shells clicked in, punctuating his words with gravity.

Stiles had shaken his head, wrinkling his nose at the mention of Mr. Argent, his father’s father – who would never be anything more than that to him.

“Because we’re the only ones who can.  We know what hides in those woods, Stiles, and we know how to protect people from it.”  He’d placed his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed.  Stiles could still remember when physical approval like that could warm him down to his toes.  He’d been such a lonely kid, even with Alli, and Chris had become something of a best friend those first few years after the Argents had taken him in.  “Anything that out of control is better off dead.”

Stiles squinted at Chris now, the red high in his cheeks and his features seeming sharper the wilder he got.  Stiles had wondered before, and he wondered again, if the Argents weren’t the next thing that needed to be put down.

“Sorry,” he muttered, knocking into Chris’ shoulder as he pushed past him.

He was barely halfway to the car by the time he heard the light footsteps he knew were his sister’s, running to catch up with him.  She grasped the opposite shoulder Chris had, squeezing to get him to slow down.  She frowned at him.  “You can’t call him a hardass when you purposefully disobey him.”  She shouldered her bow.  “He just wants to keep you safe.”

Stiles snorted.  “As if he gives a shit.  I’m the token adopted kid.  There so that every time someone tries to call the Argents unfeeling murderers they can point to me to prove what bleeding hearts they are.”

Allison looked like she’d taken a claw to the face.  “You don’t believe that.”

Stiles shrugged.

She shoved him hard in the shoulder with the flat of her palm.  Stiles went with the momentum and spun around to face her, stopping his slow walk when she did.  Disappointment and something like pity was in the purse of her lips.  “You’re an idiot,” she said bluntly.  “You really have no idea.  I used to be so jealous of how close you and dad were.  Even now, when you can barely stand to be in the same room together, you don’t see how he gets about you?  How he _still_  gets?”

Stiles clenched his jaw.  “What are you talking about?”

“Our last parent/teacher conference, I could hear dad yelling at that teacher who wanted to call you ‘remedial’ – Mr. Potnik? – from across the hall.  He went off, telling him that just because you were smarter than him that was no reason to be vindictive.  I’ve never seen dad so defensive and he’s a _werewolf hunter_.”  She took a step closer while Stiles blinked owlish eyes at her.  “And when you were hurt last summer – Stiles, we thought you were going to die and dad just… He went completely blank.  After mom, he got angry but you – You, he got broken.”  Her expression tightened, eyes going hard and Stiles knew that was something she’d gotten from Chris.  “I don’t know how you ever got the idea in your head that he doesn’t love you – that _we_ don’t love you – but you’re wrong.”

Stiles took a step back from her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket to feel more substantial as the action squared his shoulders.  It didn’t help to shield him from the barbs on the end of her words.  He blamed the weak fuzziness in his arms – still shaking slighty from the exertion and adrenaline of his near-death experience.

“I don’t know what happened between you, but dad not loving you enough to lay down and die for you is _not_ the problem.”  She narrowed her eyes at him and Stiles opened and closed his mouth but he wasn’t able to speak past the lump in his throat.

She left him standing there as she walked off, leaves rustling at her feet.  The only other sound was the click of each swallow he took.

He was still frozen when Chris reached him.  “Did you hear something?” he asked gruffly, not meeting Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles took the opportunity to stare at him openly, not having to worry about Chris catching him as he seemed to be allergic to looking at Stiles lately.  If Alli was right and Chris cared so much then why had he carved out this canyon between them?  Even before Victoria, which had made Stiles question if Chris had _ever_  been the man Stiles had thought he was, he had still gotten more closed off, more brusque, more distant.  He’d find any excuse to leave Stiles out of his plans and drag Alli along instead.

Stiles had figured he’d been regretting the choice of taking him in after his real dad had died in the Hale fire and left him an orphan.  He could admit he was a handful, a constant barrage of behavioral issues, anger problems and suspensions.  Only two weeks ago he’d been expelled from his fourth school.  Thankfully he’d still been allowed to finish out the year as they’d been less than a week away from the end.

Stiles shook his head.  “Nothing, just thinking.”

Chris glowered at him, the skin around his eyes tight.  “You can think in the car,” he bit out, jerking his head towards the edge of the woods.  He kept on without bothering to check if Stiles was following.

Stiles pulled the shoulders of his jacket in with his hands still in his pockets and sighed.  He gave himself a minute to be alone with his thoughts before he shut them away and took off after Chris.

* * *

Chris was disassembling his rifle when he stopped them on their way up the stairs.  Stiles could still feel the line of the dog’s drool caked on his neck even though he’d wiped it away with his shirtsleeve.  It needed the laundry and he needed a shower.  Alli was just ahead of him, no doubt thinking the same when he called them back down.

They flopped onto the cushions on the couch while he stood across from them, cleaning his gun on the coffee table.  “We’re going back to Beacon Hills,” he said coolly, clearly not inviting input.

Stiles jerked upright while Alli looked an equal mix of confused and pleased.  They never went _back_.

“Why?” Stiles spat.

Chris’ eyes flashed over to him, clearly reprimanding.  “Because you’ve gotten yourself expelled, _again_ , and there have been reports of ‘mountain lion attacks’ that require a bit more than the local law enforcement’s expertise.”  Stiles felt offended on behalf of Beacon Hills’ police force and he tensed in his seat.  Only the fact that he knew Chris hadn’t meant to be insulting kept him from lashing out.  Chris twisted the rag in his hand around the barrel.  “The timing won’t get better than this.”

Stiles could feel his breathing starting to get stuttery, his nostrils flaring wide, and he clenched his hands into fists.  He jounced his legs on the coffee table’s lower bar but it wasn’t enough to calm him down.  He could vaguely hear Alli asking when they’d be moving when he hauled himself up and slammed up the stairs.

He’d barely gotten the door of his room closed before Chris was pounding on the other side of it.  “Stiles,” he jiggled the handle, “open the door.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles hissed back from the center of his room.  He wanted to run and collapse at the same time and he was frozen in indecision, unable to choose between the two.

Chris pushed harder.  “I took the lock off this door,” he snarled.

“Yeah, and I put it back on.”

There was a long moment of silence and then Chris said, soft and tired, “Stiles, please.  Open the door.”

Stiles swallowed and took a step towards it.  He rested his hand on the knob and let out a long, shaky breath.  “I don’t want to go back there.”

“The door, Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth pulled to the side as he unlocked and opened it for Chris.  Chris stared at him with a pinched expression for half a second and Stiles dipped his chin, silent but still defiant, awaiting the punishment that was sure to come, when Chris grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him close.  He kept it clenched there in Stiles’ jacket and wrapped his other arm around his back.  “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he said into his hair, words tight, “I’m sorry.  You know I wouldn’t make you go back without good reason.”

To Stiles’ horror, he could feel his eyes starting to well up.  He turned his head away, pressing the flat of his cheek to the ball of Chris’ shoulder.  He stared at the blank stretch of wall across from him – never decorated because he’d never expected to stay.  There were a million things he wanted to say but all he got out was a shaky, “Dad.”  And Chris wasn’t.  He _wasn’t_ Stiles’ dad but right now he would do.

Chris let out an almost wounded catch of breath and tightened his arm around him.  “It’s all right.  It’ll be all right.”

It was exactly what he’d said to Alli when Victoria had died.  He’d held her close and said it would be all right and, eventually, it was.  Stiles decided to trust that he could pull it off again.

* * *

When Stiles thought back to Beacon Hills, he pictured a town on fire.  He’d forgotten everything but smoke and flames and the scent of destruction in the air.  Watching it pass by from the window of the car, it looked innocuous, like it hadn’t swallowed up everything he loved once upon a time.

Chris hadn’t gone anywhere near his old street, which Stiles was eternally grateful for.  “School doesn’t start up for another two months so I expect you’ll be unpacked well before the time it does,” Chris said sternly, directing it at both of them as he placed a box in Stiles’ hands.

Stiles rolled his eyes and knocked his hip into Allison’s.  “Yeah, Alli,” he drawled.

Alli scowled at him and then shot the glare over at Chris.  “Stop moving us every six months and I won’t take a year to unpack,” she said sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

Stiles snorted as he carried his box upstairs, leaving Chris and Allison to snipe at each other in peace.  Everything big had been put in place by movers the day before they arrived.  They’d perfected the process – as much as anyone could – and the headaches had been minimized greatly from repeated practice runs.

There were boxes Stiles never unpacked either.  He just hid them better than Alli did hers.  Or maybe she was just more passive aggressive than he was and she’d _wanted_ Victoria and Chris to see them.  To remind them that they were a nomadic family, despite being promised two years in at least six different cities.  They’d never fulfilled even _half_ that requirement before they were packing up again.

Stiles closed the door of his new room, no more at home here than he was in the last one.  He flopped back onto his mattress, stripped down to its bare bones and looking remarkably uninviting.  He blinked up at the ceiling, staring at the unmoving blades of the fan while his eyelids grew heavier and heavier until they closed altogether.

He stumbled into wakefulness, his room dark around him.  He moved to turn on his bedside lamp but he hadn’t plugged it in yet.  He grumbled and fell off the bed while scrabbling for the end of the cord.  He blindly dragged his fingers along the rough plaster of the wall but he didn’t have even a general idea of where the outlet might be.

He dropped the plug and stood up, blinking to try to adjust his eyes to the dark.  He shuffled his feet, hoping to reach the switch by the door with minimal injury.  He managed to stub his toe painfully on a box that had blended in perfectly with the carpet and nearly brain himself on the end of his desk when he tripped over another that had gone momentarily invisible.  He flipped on the light triumphantly and hissed when it was brighter than he’d expected.

Everything was still an unpacked mess and there was a note on top of one of the boxes on his desk.

_Dinner’s in the fridge for you._

_\- Dad_

Short and to the point.  Stiles rubbed a hand over his face.  Not that long ago, Chris would have left something that teased him about falling asleep in the middle of the day and told him that he’d let Alli eat his dinner because this was a Darwinist household and only the strong survived.  And he wouldn’t have left off the ‘Love.’

Stiles crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it into his closet.  He strode over and pushed up his window, stepping onto the roof next to it.  It was one of the first things he’d noticed when he saw the house, how easy it would be to slip out of it and have no one be the wiser.

He reached the tree at the end of the roof and grabbed onto one of the higher branches while he stepped onto the thicker one below it.  He walked the length of it easily, slipped down to a lower one and jumped, landing lightly on the lawn.  He straightened his jacket, reached behind his back and felt the hilt of the knife he kept strapped there.  He rolled his ankle and the one he kept concealed there knocked into the ball of it.

He grinned to himself and ducked his head as he took the back way out of the neighborhood.  Beacon Hills was a blessedly small town and Stiles had been paying attention as they drove in.  They were less than a mile away from his old house. 

It was painted a pale blue now and there was a Sonata in the driveway and it wasn’t his house anymore.  He didn’t know what he’d expected to find, but this wasn’t it.  He felt no connection to this place.  There weren’t any lasting impressions that his family had left behind.  The mailbox was different and no longer leaned to the left because his dad had let him dig the hole for it.

The scuff mark on the siding next to the garage from running his bike into it after coming in too hot while trying to beat his mom inside was gone, the flower beds that he’d constantly and accidentally been trampling through had been replaced with cherry trees.  The green paint that he’d written out his name with on the driveway had finally been washed away so not even a fleck remained.  There was nothing left of him here.  The only home he’d ever had was gone, filled up with someone else’s life.

Maybe that was why moving had never bothered him the way it did Alli.  He had a home somewhere, just waiting for him to find it again.

Stiles swiped at his eyes, hating Chris even more bitterly for making him come back here and find out exactly how wrong he’d been.  He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders, and turned away.  He didn’t know where he was going, only that he wasn’t going _home_ – not while he didn’t have one.  He wasn’t too surprised when he found himself standing in front of the old Hale house.

He didn’t even remember the walk.

He stared up at it, a great, hulking dead thing with sharp teeth.  Weeds were growing up through the floorboards and broken bits of beams and shingles had fallen from every part of it.  It was impotent, just a pile of debris that had killed his dad.  He shook his hand out of his pocket and leaned down to pick up a rock.

His face screwed up and he tossed it up once before catching it in his hand again, growling, “Fuck you,” as he went to throw it at the shards of glass that still clung stubbornly to the frame of the first floor window.  He never got the chance to see how accurate his aim was as his wrist was caught in a viselike grip and the rock was pried from his fingers.  He was pulled around to stare into electric blue eyes.

The reaction to them was instinctive, like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place.  Stiles’ knife was drawn with his left hand and pressing into the skin of the wolf’s neck before he’d even consciously realized he was under attack.  The wolf was quick, locking a hand around his throat, the other still gripping his wrist.  Stiles could feel claws pricking against his skin. 

Stiles did what none of them ever seemed to suspect, even though they were so fond of the maneuver themselves.  He leaned forward and bit down as hard as he could on the patch of skin just below the wolf’s ear.  It howled and shock made it loose his grip.  Stiles broke away in an instant, slashing his knife over the wolf’s chest as he kicked it hard in the bend of its knee to get it to fall so Stiles could better cut its throat, the first slice already healed.

The wolf didn’t topple though.  Its leg bent and shook but it managed to stay upright.  It snapped strong jaws in Stiles’ direction and crouched, poised to attack, claws held out on either side of its hips like the weapons they were.  Stiles rubbed at his lips and tossed his knife from his left hand to his dominant right, catching it easily.

The unnatural blue eyes flashed at him in the dark and Stiles felt his own lip rise in response.  This dog had taken human life and Stiles knew it wasn’t likely to hesitate to do so again.  He cursed himself for not bringing along something better than a bowie knife.  He’d known there was a wolf killing people in Beacon Hills, it’s why they were there after all, how could he have been so stupid as to go off on his own, practically defenseless?

The wolf charged and Stiles was bowled over, but he managed to bring his knife down _hard_ on its back, just below its shoulder blade.  He stabbed it in up to the hilt and the wolf whined, its claws digging hard into Stiles’ sides.  All it’d have to do to disembowel him completely was curl them in a little deeper.

Stiles grunted in pain and tried to hunch over himself protectively but the wolf’s weight was on top of him, pinning him down.  It was panting, the fur on the side of its face starting to recede but the claws stayed dug in and the eyes were still horrifyingly blue.

“Do it then,” Stiles spat.  He wouldn’t be afraid.  He wouldn’t let himself be.  It was fitting he should die here, right where the last of his family had.

The wolf’s body was heaving over his, its back twitching in pain as the skin tried to heal the wound that still had Stiles’ knife dug into it.  Stiles watched up close and personal as the deep line he’d sliced into its chest resealed and the wolf almost looked familiar somehow.  It stared down at him with its wicked-looking eyes, nostrils flaring.  “Argent,” it snarled.

Stiles rolled his eyes.  “I didn’t realize we were doing introductions before you got acquainted with my insides.”  The words went breathless and high towards the end as the claws pressed in further.  Fuck, it hurt.  He hissed in pain.  “S’pose it is only fair I know the name of the thing delivering my death.  I’m sure it’ll make the whole ‘revenge from beyond the grave’ thing more effective if I’ve got it.” 

The wolf leaned close, baring its fangs in his face.  “Animals only have the names you give them.  Isn’t that the hunter mindset?”

Stiles huffed out a laugh that was all pained breath.  “So I should name you then?  How ‘bout ‘Murderer?’”  The wolf reared back and Stiles captured its restless, _loud_ gaze – the one that called it out for the killer it was.  “It’s your curse, you know,” he spat, breaths coming in more shallowly.  “People will always know what you are the second you show yourself.  You’ve killed and you deserve to be put down like the rabid dog you are.”

The wolf’s weight left him, claws gone, before Stiles had even realized it’d moved.  He blinked and saw the wolf kneeling at his feet, head bowed and knife sticking out darkly from its back.  Stiles stood carefully, cradling his side, afraid he would be knocked down before he could find his feet but the wolf remained unmoving.  It was a completely surreal moment.  One second he’d been about to die, the quiet chirping of crickets on the edges of his senses, the dirt of the forest floor cold against his back, and the next his own personal Grim was kneeling at his feet as though waiting to be knighted.

“What are you doing?” Stiles growled, but his voice had started to shake.

The wolf looked up at him, its violent eyes defiant and cold.  “Do it,” it echoed Stiles, “put me down.”

Stiles swallowed and stepped forward.  He reached down and the wolf didn’t manage to hold back his flinch as he got close.  He wrapped his hand around the handle of the knife and _yanked_.  The wolf howled, hand clenching over its knee while agony shook through it.  Stiles used the flat of the blade to tilt its chin up again.  He looked into the eyes of the things he killed and he’d grant this wolf the coldness of his own while he took its life.

The wolf opened and closed its eyes and the preternatural blue flickered away between the actions.  Eyes green and clear and _recognizable_ stared up at him.

Stiles stumbled back.  “Derek H-Hale?” he stuttered.  He knew that file backwards and forwards.  He knew everything about that damn fire.  He knew how it had started, how it had spread, who had been swallowed up in it and who had been left to soldier on.  How long it had taken his father to die.  Nearly all of Derek’s family had been killed and Stiles could still remember feeling a kinship to a boy he had never met, wondering if Derek had felt as empty as he did when the smoke cleared.  He didn’t notice the knife had fallen from his trembling fingers until it thumped on the ground next to his foot.

“I don’t know you,” the wolf— _Derek_ said, eyes narrowed.

Stiles shook his head, agreeing.  “My father was a deputy when—” _The_ deputy.  Stiles jerked his chin towards the fire-charred skeleton of Derek’s family home.

Derek stood, staring at him unblinkingly.  He took a step forward and stopped.  His head tilted to the side.  “The Argents took you in?” he said, mouth twisting with distaste.

Stiles nodded before lowering his head, holes in his sides throbbing while his eye went flying over thin air.  Derek had left Beacon Hills with his sister at the same time the Argents had.  What the hell was he doing back here?  And did he suspect the same thing that Stiles did?  That the fire wasn’t an electrical malfunction but set on purpose, that someone had _wanted_ Derek’s family to burn?

Did he think it was Kate’s doing, too?

Stiles leaned down quickly, wincing as the movement aggravated his injuries, and pulled out the short knife he kept strapped to his ankle, throwing it away.  He straightened up slowly and raised his hands as a show of good faith.  “Listen to my heart,” he said, nodding to Derek.  “We came back into town today because there was a report of a mountain lion attack that my dad thinks is werewolf-related.  We’re here to hunt it and then move on.”  Stiles swallowed.  “I don’t think the fire was an accident and if I can find out what happened while I’m here, then I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.  You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours and I won’t tell anyone I found you here tonight.”

Derek’s nostrils flared.  “And if I’m the wolf that killed the girl?”

Stiles’ eyes burned with his intensity.  “Then you wouldn’t have knelt at my feet and asked for death.”  He nodded to the knives lying harmlessly in the dirt.  “I’ll be back for those tomorrow.”  He shoved his hands in his pockets and purposefully turned his back on a werewolf, hoping his heart wouldn’t give away how frightening he found that.

He walked back to the new house slowly, running through his meeting with Derek.  He wasn’t anything like Stiles had thought he would be when he’d imagined him when he was younger, orphaned just like he was.  But the connection he felt to him was still there, weak though it was.  They’d both lost more than any one person ever should and Stiles didn’t trust him but he knew he’d be keeping his promise to him all the same.

He wouldn’t be telling Chris that Derek was in Beacon Hills.  Because Stiles didn’t owe Chris that.  Stiles didn’t owe Chris anything.

He slid up the window to his room and climbed inside.

“I thought you’d leave.”

Stiles’ heart jumped up into his throat and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of his bedroom and realize that Chris was sitting on his bed, waiting for him, and holding one of Stiles’ hoodies in his hands.  Stiles reached over and felt for the lamp’s button on his bedside table.  He had already pushed it by the time he remembered that he still hadn’t plugged it in.  Which was lucky, he realized, as he glanced down at himself and the dark patches he could see on his shirt.  His own blood and Derek’s was still damp against his skin.

He hoped Chris wouldn’t be able to make it out in the dark.  He fumbled down onto the floor and his vision started to adjust, taking in the fact that the dark shapes that were his boxes were no longer spread out all over his floor but instead stacked neatly along the wall.  Chris stood, dropping Stiles’ hoodie, and Stiles realized his bed had been made – sheets, pillows and comforter all perfectly arranged to his liking.

It made him wonder just how quickly Chris had realized he was gone and how long he’d been waiting for him to come back.

Chris cleared his throat and fixed Stiles with a heavy stare.  “Did it help?”  His voice was soft and low, his gaze concerned, and Stiles had no doubt that Chris knew exactly where he’d gone.

A brief flare of guilt flashed through him as he actively chose not to reveal Derek’s location.  He shook his head, remembering the disconnect he’d felt to his own house and the hatred he’d felt for the Hale one.  The skin around his eyes felt tight, his lower lip quivering, and Chris wrapped a firm arm around his shoulders.

Stiles leaned his torso slightly away so Chris wouldn't notice the wetness of his shirt or jacket but otherwise he let Chris hold him, for the second time in recent memory.  This time, Chris didn’t say it would be all right and he backed away almost as quickly as he’d come, Stiles’ forehead slipping off his collarbone.  Stiles sniffed hard and Chris’ expression blanked, the emotion bleeding away.  “It’s late,” he said evenly, “you should sleep.”

Stiles nodded, waiting to shrug out of his jacket and bloody t-shirt until Chris left.

He stopped just at the edge of Stiles’ room and turned back.  “Stiles,” he said weakly, “You know better than to go anywhere alone.  I’ll excuse it this once but you won’t do it again or I’ll nail that damn thing shut.”

Chris left, closing Stiles’ door behind him before he could respond.  Stiles was struck by how genuine he’d sounded, how stretched and thin his voice had come out, like his worry was so sincere, so widespread it was straining even his vocal cords.

He could almost believe Chris  _cared_.

* * *

Stiles booted up his laptop and hacked into his dad’s computer using remote location.  He’d planted a trojan virus in it when he was fourteen, not long after his curiosity and ability to talk Alli into his terrible plans had revealed that the Argents were _werewolf_ hunters and not arms dealers like they’d always been told.

The claw marks on either side of his torso smarted but he ignored the pinch of pain as he browsed through his dad’s folders.  He’d done all he could for it, disinfected it and taped it up with gauze but the occasional twinge when his skin was pulled wrong or he moved too quickly was unavoidable.

It barely took any navigating before he was clicking his wireless mouse over the report about the dead girl found in the Preserve.  It had been passed along the hunter back channels to someone who was on location, or willing to get there.  The words ‘bite marks and bisected at the waist’ jumped out at him as he skimmed the report.  His eyes flicked back up to the top and he nearly fell out of his chair, his stomach roiling unpleasantly.  He hadn’t realized they’d identified the body and his cursor blinked next to the name.

 **VICTIM:** _Laura Hale_

Stiles swallowed, Derek’s words coming back to him.   _‘And if I’m the wolf that killed the girl?’_  He’d thought it was strange phrasing at the time.  Not the gender-specific term but the definite article.  That it had been ‘ _the_ girl’ and not ‘that girl.’  Stiles sat back in his seat, blinking.  Now Derek was the same as him, the last of his family.

At least he’d gotten to keep something of it.  He was still Derek _Hale_.  Stiles didn’t even have the comfort of his own last name.  His mouth twisted to the side, bitterness souring his mood, before he was up and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.  He’d had to toss the old one and the t-shirt.  Unsalvageable due to the rips in the fabric from Derek’s claws and their commingled blood.

He tromped down the stairs and was on his way out when Chris called from the kitchen, “Where are you going?”

Stiles paused but didn’t even bother to cant his head in Chris’ direction.  “Out,” he said tightly.

There was a silence that somehow managed to be both strained and argumentative, everything between them seemed to carry that air lately.  Chris’ words came out tense and clipped.  “Be back in time for dinner.”

Stiles dipped his chin in agreement before leaving.  He walked the long way out to the Preserve, looping around his entire neighborhood so he wouldn’t have to so much as cross the street that housed the house that wasn’t his home.  He kicked at rocks and sticks with his feet as he wound his way out towards the Hale house, making little scuffing noises with the toes of his sneakers.  The last thing he wanted to do was surprise Derek a second time.

His eyes tracked the small drifts in the dirt and the build-up of leaves from where his and Derek’s heels had dug in.  There was no sign of either of the weapons he’d lost.  He sighed and looked up at the yawning edifice of the house.  A slow smirk curled his lips.

Both of his knives were dug into the support beam on the porch.  Stiles’ smirk widened into a grin as he skipped up the steps.  The wood was weak from the fire damage and being exposed to the elements for so long so it wasn’t hard to yank the blades back out, though the movement did twist his sides something awful and almost certainly reopened a few cuts.  He sucked his teeth around a hiss of pain before sheathing the daggers again and taking a step back, considering.

He stared down at himself.  He’d thrown on a white undershirt that had a dirt stain on the front that wouldn’t come out no matter how much Shout or OxiClean Stiles dumped on it and the fabric was weak from the repeated attempts.  He bit into his lower lip thoughtfully, made up his mind, and reached down to pull out the blunt knife he kept in his ankle strap.  He found the stitching in the side and half-cut, half-ripped into it.  The cloth tore easily and Stiles managed to cut off a long strip – much longer than he’d meant to simply because he couldn’t find a good place to stop it.  He weighed the knife pensively in his hand.  He had at least five backups for it in the boxes in his room.  He could part with it.

He walked back up to the same beam and stabbed his knife into the fabric exactly where it had been placed before.  It was simultaneously a thank you note and a show of good faith.

Derek had his scent now.  Stiles hoped he wouldn’t come to regret that.  Somehow he didn’t think he would.

* * *

Stiles followed the cop cars.  His scanner was at home but he’d already hacked the Beacon Hills text message alert system used countywide.  They came in quick succession.  10-54 at the local high school.  Then barely a minute later, 10-45D.  Possible dead body to deader than a fucking doornail dead body in under a minute.  Stiles had been in the middle of Google Mapping the high school when the cop cars had flown right past him and he’d let the sirens lead him.

He bounced up on his toes outside the gates of the school, still open for the summer school kids, and tried to find the best viewpoint.  His expression brightened as he saw the roof had a clear view of the parking lot, and the bus the cops were crawling all over.  Stiles backed away from the small crowd, found a curl in the fence close to the ground not that much farther away and slipped under it. 

He stole around the back of the school, looking for an outside access point.  There was a steep ladder on the far side that took Stiles no effort to climb, even if the stretch of his arms reaching for the next rung did make his sides prick with discomfort.  The ache was getting to be less of an omnipresent thing though and he no longer even had to bandage the scabs.  He reached the top and hopped over the edge.  Now all he had to do was not draw attention to himself.  Which should be easy enough, no one was going to be looking for a gangly kid spying on a murder scene from the roof of the high school.  He hoped.

It wasn’t much of an improvement.  All the interesting bits seemed to be _inside_ the bus but at least Stiles was no longer being elbowed in his already injured side by the idiot girl he’d been standing behind.  He crouched near the far edge of the roof and peered down at the moving pieces.  They’d be removing the body soon, considering the ME was already on scene.  Hopefully he could catch something useful then – see if it was another ‘mountain lion attack.’

“Argent.”

Stiles nearly fell off the roof.  He spun around and his heart finally stopped trying to bail out his mouth.  “Jesus fucking Christ, Derek.  The creepy-werewolf-slinking around a hunter?  Is that really your _best_ idea?” 

Derek smirked.  “If the best he’s got on him is a bowie knife – _still_ – I’m not too concerned.”

Stiles scowled down at his own ill-prepared self again.  He really needed to stop leaving his wolfsbane-laced shit at home.  He still refused to concede the point.  He coughed and Derek crouched down next to him.  Well.  Not _next_ to him but a few feet away.  “And it’s Stiles.  Not Argent.”

Derek didn’t even look at him, just murmured softly, “Stiles isn’t a name.”  That seemed to be the end of the conversation for him.  He just denounced Stiles’ identity, left him nameless, and moved on.  What a dick.

“Well.  It’s just about the only one I’ve got left so I’d appreciate if you could pretend.”

Derek shrugged, eyes pinched as he stared down at the parking lot.  “I don’t expect I’ll need it one way or the other.”

Stiles cocked his head at him.  “You’re not already planning out our epic, break-all-the-rules bromance of the ages?”  Derek actually turned to look at him, blinking stupidly.  “Come on, man, you’ve got to know what to put on the cake, don’t you?  The Best Friends Forever cake,” Stiles clarified.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Stiles grinned to himself.  “Yep, you’re starting to like me.”

Derek snorted.  “I’m considering ripping your throat out as we speak.”  Stiles glanced down at Derek’s hands, raising his brows to note that his claws weren’t even out.  Derek shook his head and spread his lips to show his teeth had gone sharp, thinning into fangs.  “With my teeth.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose.  “Unsanitary.”  He stared back down at the cops, trying to will them to wheel out the body so he could exit this awkward situation with Beacon Hills’ friendly neighborhood werewolf.  “If at any point I provoke you into murdering me, please don’t do it with your teeth.  I don’t care if a dog’s mouth _is_ cleaner than a human’s.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and Stiles could see his fingernails were definitely lengthening to claws this time.  And, yeah, okay, maybe that wasn’t the brightest.  “You’re getting there,” Derek growled, warning in the sharpness of his consonants.

A topic change might be in Stiles’ best interests here.  He sniffed.  “Can you get anything they’re saying?”

Derek was quiet for a long moment, brow furrowed, like he was considering keeping it to himself.  Then logic seemed to win out.  Opposite sides or not, they were after the same thing now – killing the wolf responsible for this and Laura’s murder.  “It’s the kill of an Alpha werewolf,” he grunted reluctantly, like he was parting with the information against his better judgment.  “Too much blood for it to be anything else.  He was hobbled and then his throat was torn.”

Stiles turned to look at him.  “Scent-wise?”

Derek shook his head.  “Nothing recognizable.”  He clenched his hands into fists while his nostrils flared.  “Savagery maybe.”

Stiles chose to ignore the show of emotion in a rare moment of tact.  It was easy to forget that Derek had just lost his sister to this thing.  “Have they identified the body yet?”

Derek tilted his head, listening.  “Garrison Myers.”  At Stiles’ probing gaze, he brought up a shoulder.  “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Stiles sighed, the name prodding at the back of his mind but he couldn’t dredge up any significance.  “Me either,” he decided.

Derek nodded once and stood.  He was nearly to the other end of the roof when Stiles cleared his throat and said, “Derek,” not bothering to raise his voice.  He froze but didn’t turn around.  “I’m sorry,” Stiles said throatily.  “About your sister.”

Derek tensed before continuing on his way.  Stiles turned back around to watch as they brought out the body.  He hadn’t expected anything else.

* * *

Stiles stared at his computer screen, mouth open.  The name _had_ been familiar.  It was a brief notation on a page that Stiles had read hundreds of times over.  Garrison Myers, also known as the insurance investigator who had worked the Hale fire.  A quick search told Stiles that a few years after he had ruled that fire to be accidental, he had been sacked for suspicion of fraud on an unrelated case.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. 

“Dinner.”

Stiles looked up to find Chris leaning in his door.  He closed his laptop and nodded.  “I’ll be down in a second.”  Chris dipped his chin and left to go knock on Alli’s door.

Stiles ran his tongue along his top row of teeth, trying to figure out what to do next.  The only person who was likely to know as much about the Hale fire as he did was Derek, and he had to know of someone who would want to kill the man responsible for covering it up.  Stiles paused in standing up from his chair.  Somehow he was certain that Derek hadn’t been the one to do it, which made no sense.  His eyes were blue, which meant Stiles knew exactly what he was capable of, and yet somehow he didn’t think of Derek as a killer. 

Stiles snorted to himself.  Fucking famous last words, those.

He nearly ran into Alli on the landing and she smiled at him, that one that took up half her face and looked like nothing but pure joy.  It had gotten rarer in the wake of Victoria’s death but he was glad to see it hadn’t disappeared completely.

Dinner was a quiet affair and Alli’s eyes only twice wandered over to the empty chair at the head of the table.  Stiles hadn’t been particularly close to Victoria and he’d never considered her to be his mother, the way he’d once considered Chris his dad, but he’d respected and held a certain fondness for her.  She was a strict woman and a strong one for it, hard to get close to but there for him every time he’d needed her.  There were brief moments when he was struck by her absence and it would make him stumble, but he could pull himself back together barely a minute later.

He couldn’t imagine what it was like for Alli.  Or rather, he could.  All too well.  And he resented her a bit for taking him back there.  It had led to him distancing himself from her over the past few weeks, after those first few months of sticking close, and he knew she’d noticed.  She was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t.

He looked away from her to Chris, who apparently had been watching him watch Alli.  He cleared his throat and redirected his gaze to his own hands, which were folded above his plate and still holding his fork.  “Your Aunt Kate is coming into town tomorrow night.”

Stiles’ own fork clattered against his plate while Alli’s head whipped around, a smile already forming.

“Why?” Stiles demanded.

Chris’ mouth tightened, like he was considering mentioning the rudeness of Stiles’ tone before he let it go.  “We grew up here, Kate and I,” he said carefully.  “Us moving back here, it’s a good excuse for her to revisit.”

Stiles couldn’t prove it – it was more a gut instinct – but he fully believed Kate Argent had set the fire that had killed his dad.  He’d seen firsthand all the respect she had for the Code and it could fit on the head of a pin.  With room to spare.  Every werewolf was a rabid dog to her, in need of a bullet to the brain.

She’d made one too many purposefully equivocal comments to him while Chris was still fostering him.  Before Chris had decided to make the arrangement permanent.  She probably hadn’t realized Chris was even considering it, which was why she’d felt safe telling him, “It’s a shame about your daddy, Stilinski, but that’s what happens when you respond to the howl of wolves.  You remember Little Red, don’t you?”  She’d curled her fingers in his hair and Stiles had fought not to flinch away from her and the smoke in her voice.  He’d begged Chris to buzz it all off the next day.  “She trusted a wolf and look where that got her.  They’re animals, _dangerous_ , mindless monsters and they got your daddy killed.”

Stiles hadn’t understood what wolves had to do with his dad dying in a fire but Chris had stormed over and grabbed Stiles’ hand – hissing something too low for him to hear at Kate – before he could ask.  He’d already hated her and seeing Chris’ furious expression had only solidified that he should.

She had worn red to his dad’s funeral.  Stiles remembered wanting to push her into the grave with the coffin for it.  Chris had picked him up and Stiles had buried his face in his neck, trying to hide from the whole world.

In hindsight, Stiles thought she’d wanted him to know exactly what she was responsible for – what his father had brought on himself for sympathizing with werewolves, knowingly or not.  There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in her over it, even though she’d killed more than one human in the blaze.  Stiles was sure of that.  She was the most inhuman thing he’d ever come across and now Chris was inviting her in.

And it was made worse by the fact that Stiles also had a niggling suspicion that Chris _knew_ what Kate had done.  That it was more than half the reason he’d taken Stiles in – because his sister was the cause, the villain behind why he didn’t have anyone else left.

Stiles smacked his hands down on the table.  “I’m going out,” he ground out, voice shaking as he stood.

Chris’ eyes narrowed as he stared up at him.  “You’re not finished.”

Stiles sneered at him.  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I’ll clear his plate,” Alli piped up quickly, sensing the growing tension between them.

Stile offered her a tight but grateful nod and didn’t share another glance with Chris before he was slamming the front door closed.  He ran all the way out to the Preserve, the cold that was whipping against his cheeks a welcome distraction from his thoughts.  He stopped in front of the Hale house steps, leaning over and panting to catch his breath, his hood falling over his head.

“Stiles?”

Stiles spun around and saw Derek approaching him from the woods.  Stiles was still breathing irregularly, breaths shallow, as he popped up and looked back towards the house.  “Tell me you don’t live here, man.”

Derek ignored him.  “What are you doing here?” he asked, tense and unwelcoming.  He tilted his head, undoubtedly listening to the cymbal crash of Stiles’ heartbeat.  “What happened?”

Stiles couldn’t help but notice that, despite Derek's rude lack of welcome, he was more relaxed around Stiles than he ever had been.  The line of his muscled shoulders was almost completely relaxed.  No doubt because Stiles’ scent was so familiar to him now.  Stiles licked his lower lip, deciding to tell him why he’d ended up _here_ at the very least.  “You know the bus driver?”

Derek nodded, guarded. 

“Not always a bus driver as it turns out.  His job before that?  Insurance investigator.”  Stiles watched Derek stiffen.  Good, he was smart enough to see where this was going.  It was nice to know Stiles wasn’t dealing with just a pretty face.  “Yep, got it in one.  The same insurance investigator who ruled the Hale fire was due to electrical malfunction.  He was later fired on suspicion of fraud.”

Derek’s expression stayed blank but his voice was tight when he barked, “Come inside.”

Stiles followed him in, tossing at his back, “What do you think the likelihood of this being a massive coincidence is?”

“Slim,” Derek bit out.

Stiles craned his neck around as this was the first time he’d actually been _in_ the remains of Derek’s old house.  It was rotted out in some places, fire-charred in others, uninhabitable all over.  “Seriously, you aren’t living here.  Right?”

“What else do you know?” Derek asked, turning around to face Stiles, arms crossed and mouth pursed.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek.  “Well, I can _guess_ that it’s someone who wants revenge for the fire.”  Derek swallowed and Stiles rolled his eyes.  “Dude, I don’t think you’re responsible for any of this so you can chill.”

Derek’s eyes flicked over him quickly, assessing.  He paused a moment and then nodded once, apparently choosing to believe the steadiness of his heartbeat.

Stiles cocked his head and stared at him.  “I was actually kind of hoping _you_ might have some ideas on that one.”

Derek shook his head, looking almost helpless.  “Laura and I were the only ones who survived.”  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  “Well, my uncle too, but he’s catatonic and in a nursing home.  Someone definitely would have noticed if he was up and walking around.”

Stiles pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger.  “You didn’t have any other family, however distant?”

Derek’s eyes looked pained and he dropped his gaze to the floor as though attempting to hide whatever was behind it.  “We were a Pack,” his voice was stretched thin, like animal skin over a drum frame, “we didn’t spread out.”

Stiles frowned at him, empathy rolling off of him in waves.  He was considering reaching out and gripping Derek’s shoulder in solidarity when his phone pinged.  He shook off the momentary insanity – comforting a werewolf?  What the fuck was he thinking? – and dragged his cell out of his pocket.  His eyes went hard.  “You up for a trip?”

Derek looked up at him, brow furrowed.

Stiles turned the phone around so the screen faced him.  “Because somebody else just bit it.”

* * *

“Do you recognize him?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed on the stretcher being wheeled out of the video store and his nostrils flared.  “No.” 

Stiles clenched his jaw.  It was what he’d expected.  Nothing could ever be easy.  He tilted his head and said carefully, “Listen for a name.  If we’re right about this not being a coincidence then he should have some connection to the fire.”  Stiles stood and stumbled a bit when he realized what he’d said.  ‘We.’  He looked back at Derek and blinked.  Derek didn’t notice.  His head was cocked and he was still and silent as he picked his way through the conversations being held on the ground.  He clearly hadn’t found anything off with Stiles’ words – which was what _was_ off with Stiles’ words.  That it hadn’t even felt strange to think of he and Derek as a ‘we,’ as a fucking _team_ , with, like, matching spandex jumpsuits and a name that doubled as a pun or something.

And that was unacceptable.

Stiles leaned down, bent over and hissed in Derek’s ear, “I could kill you, you know.  Don’t fucking forget that.”

To his surprise, a slow, sly grin spread over Derek’s mouth.  “Not if I kill you first.”

Stiles wanted to grin at that but he bit it back.  Fuck.  Derek was not funny.  He was an animal, a monster, and he’d killed before.  He’d killed before.  That had to matter more than a tragic past that dove-tailed with Stiles’ own and a weak sense of humor.  Stiles cleared his throat.  “Got it?” 

Derek was quiet for another two minutes and then he rose from where he was kneeling over the edge of the roof.  He looked back at Stiles, expression pinched, and nodded.

* * *

This was stupid.  Possibly the stupidest fucking thing he’d ever done.  Stiles dragged his heel through the line of mountain ash and the protection around the house shattered like glass.  Stiles swallowed and stepped over the barrier that was no longer a barrier. 

Derek was right behind him.

Stiles was keyed up from what a dumb-fuck idea this was, so when Derek’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, his reaction was instantaneous.  He grabbed it, twisted and held his arm out for the break.  Derek just looked like he found the whole thing goddamn hilarious.  Stiles let his hand drop with a scowl and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

Derek shrugged, still looking more amused than offended.  “I was going to say: I’m as uncomfortable being here as you are having me here.”  He perked a dark brow.  “Still true.”

Stiles breathed deeply and let it out slow.  “I don’t think you’re going to pull anything, I just—”

“It fights every instinct you have.”

Stiles nodded, feeling more composed knowing that Derek understood.

Derek flashed those wholly unnatural and violent blue eyes at him, just to be a dick – or that was Stiles’ guess at least.  God, they were both such fucking assholes – and smirked.  “Even playing field then.”

Stiles sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.  He led Derek up the stairs, not letting them linger anywhere, and took him straight to his room.  He closed the door behind Derek as soon as they were inside.  There was no one else home, Derek had confirmed it, but that hadn’t soothed his urge to jump out of his skin at the slightest creak of the house any.

He turned around to find Derek’s eyes were watering and he looked downright pale.  “Wolfsbane.  Scent’s,” he shook his head, “everywhere.”

Stiles squared his shoulders and waved a hand carelessly.  “Yeah, I’ve got stashes of it all over.”  He smirked.  “And I’m not getting rid of it so I’d suggest you employ some mouth-breathing for the next few minutes there, Fido.”

Derek was bent over and his chest was heaving but he managed to shoot a dark glare at Stiles.  Stiles noticed the way the eyes flickered between the green of Derek and the blue of his wolf.

“We won’t be long,” Stiles promised.  He opened his laptop and pulled up the police database, plugging in the name Derek had given him.  Derek leaned over his shoulder and Stiles noted, with slightly vicious glee, that he was breathing through his mouth.  Derek growled a little, likely because he could guess that Stiles was feeling completely unrepentant.  Stiles scrolled through the police report, pleased to find the guy had one.  When Derek’s gaze reached the third to last conviction, his claws tightened over the edge of Stiles’ desk and the wood squeaked under his grip.

 _Arson_.

Stiles swallowed, pained.  He shoved his shoulder lightly into Derek’s chest to distract him from his anger, keeping his eyes on the screen to give Derek all the privacy he could manufacture.  “Dude, that’s not a scratching post and you have more in common with canines than cats.  Have a little dignity.”  Derek stiffened for half a second before, Stiles was pleased to see, the claws retracted.  He didn’t know what this was, what it was in them that _responded_ to the other.  Stiles had let a volatile wolf into his bedroom and then given him information that was sure to piss him off and yet he wasn’t afraid of Derek.

He didn’t think Derek was afraid of _him_ either.

When they were together, they weren’t hunter and werewolf.  There only seemed to be a multitude of similarities rather than that one glaring difference.  They were both closed-off assholes who were completely alone in the world.  Sad as that was, it bonded them and Stiles knew – at least on his end – it made him feel _less_ alone.

He felt Derek tense behind him and Stiles opened his mouth to ask what had got him ratcheted up all over again when a deep, foreboding voice said into the silence, “Step away from my son or I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your brain.”

Stiles’ eyes widened and he popped up instantly, spinning around.  “Dad,” he said quickly, sparing a brief look for Derek before his gaze landed back on Chris.  Chris, who was holding a handgun up against the lower curve of Derek’s skull and backing him away from Stiles.  “Uh, this is Mig—” 

“I know who he is,” Chris snarled.  He pushed Derek’s head forward with the barrel.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in my son’s room, Hale?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed.  “I invited him.”

Chris’ gaze cut between them and his eyes gleamed maniacally, clearly thinking he had the upper hand as he revealed viciously, “He’s a werewolf.”

Stiles barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “I know,” he said bluntly.  Seriously, how stupid did Chris think he was?  Derek practically had it tattooed on his forehead.  Not the most subtle guy in the world, that one.  Stiles _was_ surprised to find that it was getting harder and harder to care about _what_ Derek was.  Because so much more importantly: “He’s Derek.”  Stiles shrugged.  “He’s my friend.”

He didn’t miss the way that Derek’s gaze sliced over to him, eyes wide.  Yeah, they were friends – at least, Stiles was realizing, he considered them to be – and Derek could just fucking deal.  Stiles didn’t have any friends, hadn’t in years – they moved too much and he was too angry for it besides, and maybe he wasn’t any good at it.  But he didn’t think Derek was either.  They were a match made in dysfunctional heaven.

Chris’ gun lowered a fraction and he parroted, “You know?  What do you mean _you know_ , Stiles?”  His expression went from murderous to helpless in a split-second.  “I know you’re angry with me, that you’re a teenager and you’re rebelling, but there are safer ways than this.”

“Derek’s never hurt me,” Stiles argued.  The scabbed over claw marks in his sides twinged with pain that was utterly mental, calling him out for the liar he was.  But they’d hurt _each other_ then, and Stiles was sure they’d do it again.  They weren’t good at this but Stiles _needed_ someone who was as bad at it as he was so he wouldn’t feel like such a dick for fucking it up every five seconds.  “He’s had plenty of opportunities,” – to kill him at least – “and he hasn’t.  He won’t.”

Chris’ expression darkened while his gaze flitted between them rapid-fire and Stiles could tell he was drawing all the wrong conclusions.  His lip raised in disgust and he ordered Derek flatly, “Stay the hell away from Stiles.”  He let Derek turn around to face him, gun still drawn on him.  He clicked the safety back on and lowered the gun.  “I won’t hesitate next time,” he promised coldly.

Derek nodded tightly, not bothering to catch Stiles’ eye before he was leaving the room.

Stiles didn’t even wait until Derek was out of the house before he was grinding out, “You have no right to tell me who I can and can’t spend my time with.” 

Chris dropped down onto Stiles’ bed, collapsing like his muscles had given out completely.  He used the palm of the hand holding his gun to rub at his right eye.  He let out a heavy sigh, looking up at Stiles imploringly.  “He’s a monster, Stiles.”

And he wasn’t.  It was a lie, a convenient one, but a lie nonetheless.  Stiles couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to figure that out.  He was shaking all over and he could feel his eyes starting to cloud.  He dug his nails into his palms and got out tightly, “What the fuck does that make Kate then?”

Chris looked up at him, equal parts devastated and exhausted.  “Stiles,” he croaked and it was filled with concern and care and Stiles couldn’t handle that right now.

Chris was angry, just like him.  Bad at expressing himself, too.  They were both too similar and too different in the same moment.  Chris wanted to keep everything in and Stiles wanted to let everything out, rail at the whole fucking world for what it had done to him.  The strangest part, though, was that – impossible as Chris was to read – Stiles knew that Chris loved him.

And Stiles, for all he thought he did, didn’t want to be loved.  Being loved made it harder to hate.  And the hating made him forget how much he hurt.  Chris could only seem to remind him of the agony he should be in.

Stiles clenched his jaw.  “Get out of my room,” he hissed.  Chris looked up at him, like he wanted to argue or maybe comfort him but then he was rising to his feet.  He paused at the edge of Stiles’ carpet.  Stiles turned his face away from him and said shakily, “I mean it, get _out_.”

* * *

Stiles sat on the steps outside the Hale house, tossing up a pinecone and catching it.  He wasn’t really listening to Derek as he talked, which was rare because Derek took so few of the opportunities presented to him to actually _speak words_ – quite unlike Stiles that way – that Stiles tended to pay the strictest attention.  Which wasn’t particularly easy for him.  He knew Derek was saying something about how many people he thought were involved in _setting_ the fire, based on the way the dirt around the house had been disturbed and the scents that had lingered.

At least, that’s what he _had_ been talking about when Stiles was still listening.  He could only assume Derek was still mulling over the same topic.  Stiles’ mind wasn’t really with it either way.  He let his gaze wander over to Derek and he cut him off mid-word.  “Who’d you kill?”

Derek froze instantly, the entirety of him going tense, and Stiles knew – even if Derek _did_ concede they were friends, and that was a mighty big _if_ – they weren’t to this point yet.  But it was a _glaring_ insult to Stiles’ instincts that he couldn’t ignore.  Even if he’d rather he could.  The facts were:

     Stiles was beginning to trust Derek.

     Derek was a murderer.

They conflicted and it was annoying as shit.  Stiles had always been able to trust in his gut feelings, and Stiles’ gut was telling him that Derek was someone he could rely on not to shove claws through his back or sink teeth into his neck at the first opportunity.  But those eyes said he’d already done that to someone else.  They said Stiles’ gut feeling was a chump that was about to get taken for a ride.

Derek wasn’t going to tell him, Stiles knew that.  He’d known before he asked.  But he couldn’t _not_ ask because it was keeping him from being fully at ease with Derek.  It was keeping them from _actually_ being friends.  Right now they were connected through flames and Stiles wanted something more permanent than that.  Fires could be put out and, when they were, they left behind more ruin than warmth.

The house groaned its agreement as Stiles shifted to turn and face Derek properly, scooting closer to him on the steps.  “You don’t have to—Tell me it was necessary.  Tell me you did no more than you had to.”

Derek looked up at him, green eyes hooded.  He stared at Stiles in utter silence for so long that Stiles didn’t think he’d ever speak again.  His gaze searched Stiles’ open, upturned face for ages before he finally found whatever he was looking for – or maybe decided to trust that whatever he was looking for was there, despite finding no evidence of it.  “I did what I had to,” he said finally.

Stiles was surprised to find how _much_ he believed him.  It shouldn’t have quieted his every doubt, maybe eased them a little but certainly not silenced them completely.  It did anyway.

Stiles sat back, leaning his elbows against the top step and decided – since he’d already brought up one intensely uncomfortable topic, he might as well drag up the other, too.  He squinted into the woods unnecessarily, the sun was strong but the porch was shaded.  He shrugged, trying to roll the words out with nonchalance.  “I wonder if whoever’s doing this also suspects Kate.”

Kate, who was coming into town that very day.  Chris and Allison were at the airport right then, at the same moment that he and Derek lounged on the Hale front steps.  He purposefully didn’t look at Derek as he said it, instead focusing on keeping his heartbeat steady and his position easy.  He had no real reason to believe what he did about Derek and Kate.  Only that once you’d eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.  Kate had to have a reason for leaving Derek alive.  She did _nothing_ without a reason and there was only one that would be able to justify leaving a wolf to live – at least in her mind, and that was leaving him with so much guilt and self-hatred that death would’ve been kinder.

Stiles shrugged, his mouth going dry and trying to cement itself closed.  “I don’t have any proof it was her—”

“It was her.”  Derek’s eyes were blue and he said the words like he’d chewed them up before he spat them out.  That was certainly only adding fuel to the fire that was Stiles’ theory. 

Stiles bit his lips, squeezing his hands together and releasing.  Over and over again.  Should he say it or was this one of those things that Chris was always telling him to keep to himself?  He looked over at Derek, tense and furious and full of shame.  They were friends and, from all Stiles knew about them, you were honest with your friends.  His voice came out stringy and strange.  “I also suspect I know why she left you alive as witness to the destruction she caused.” 

Derek stiffened so thoroughly that Stiles winced in sympathetic pain.  His eyes had widened and he looked like it was all he could do to stop himself from bolting and Stiles got _angry_.

Not at him, but _for_ him.  He stood up, fists shaking at his sides, and growled, “Derek, dude, you can’t take any of that on yourself.  She’s fucking psychotic and she would have found a way to do it as soon as she’d made up her mind to.”  He was so _mad_ , at Kate for what she’d done and at Derek for letting her make him believe he was responsible.  In fact, he was far more pissed at Derek than he was at Kate in that moment.  What kind of idiot believed the chick with their family’s blood all over her hands when she said: ‘ _You did this_ ’?  Derek fucking knew better.   _Everyone_ knew better.  Stiles clenched his jaw.  “You want me to be really _fucking_ honest with you, big guy?  That was probably the least violent way it could have happened.  You’re probably fucking lucky that you could get your dick up for her because could you imagine how much worse it would have been if you _hadn’t_?  You were a teenager, _barely_ , you were _allowed_ to be turned on by a hot girl who gave you attention – who _designed_ herself to be your fucking fantasy.  You are not at fault for any of what followed.  Don’t you dare, for one fucking second, let her make you think you had a hand in it.  You didn’t.  You are _not_ a monster, you are _not_ an animal.  She is.  And _she_ needs to be put down.”

Stiles was _shaking_ as he snapped his jaws shut.  Fuck Kate.  For killing his dad, for making Derek hate his own dick, for burning his whole family alive.   _Fuck_ her.  And fuck Derek too.  Fuck him for thinking any of this was his fault, for making Stiles _care_ about him when Stiles was too damaged to even care about himself, for making Stiles deal with something delicate when all he knew how to do with his hands was _crush_.  He wasn’t fit for friendship and he wasn’t good at any of this and he wanted to _scream_ as the frustration built up and up in him.

Derek’s head was bowed and had been almost since Stiles had started his tirade.  Finally he lifted it, eyes still downcast and said hoarsely, “I thought I was a dog.”

Stiles wanted to collapse in relief.  He couldn’t do any more serious bullshit.  He was done, his insides scraped raw and hollowed out of all the tact he’d had in him.  He smiled goofily at Derek, grateful beyond words that Derek wasn’t going to make him do _more_ , and canted his head.  “A puppy maybe.”

Derek stood as well, his eyes pinched and he reached out a hand towards him.  “ _Stiles_ ,” Derek started and his voice was broken with emotion.

And _nope_.   _No_.  That was not okay.  Delicacy and Stiles were done for the day.  They were officially on a _break_.  He couldn’t.  He’d gone as far down this road as he could for now.  He brushed Derek’s hand away and forced levity into his tone.  “Don’t make it gay, dude.”

Derek huffed out a small laugh, seeming relieved himself that Stiles hadn’t wanted anything in return for that brief display of loyalty.  And, God, did Stiles ever not.  He smirked.  “You started it.”

Stiles stretched out his arms, grinning nearly as wide.  “And I regretted it instantly so let’s move on already.”

Derek nodded and he was about to open his mouth, still looking amused, when his expression went tight and his head whipped around out towards the woods.

Stiles hadn’t heard anything.  He drew his knife and stuck close to Derek’s back as he made his way down the steps, fingernails slowly lengthening to claws.  “What is it?” Stiles asked guardedly.

Derek shook his head and rolled his neck.  Stiles knew it meant that the eyes and the fangs were joining his claws.  He moved in front of Stiles when Stiles tried to split directions as they reached the forest floor.  Stiles rolled his eyes at the overprotective and unsubtle maneuvering.  He could take care of himself, thank you very much.  He’d been hunting werewolves for two years and he was still standing.

Derek was as bad as Chris.

Derek stayed tense and Stiles stared in the same direction he was, hoping he’d at least _see_ the threat before it reached them, since it didn’t seem like he’d be hearing it.  He watched Derek’s nostrils flare from the side.  He looked almost annoyed as the werewolf-y attributes were abruptly tucked away all over again.

Stiles lowered his knife.  “What?” he asked, slowly easing his muscles from tight to relaxed.  “Did you get freaked out by a squirrel or something?”  He grinned.

Derek shook his head, shooting him a dark look.  “It’s your dad,” he said, walking back up the steps and into the house.

“Wha—”

“Stiles?”  And sure enough, that was Chris breaking through the tree line and tromping up to the house.  He looked surprised to see Stiles there.  “I told you to stay away from him,” he said, voice pitched low, as he glared after Derek’s retreating back.

Stiles sheathed his knife and crossed his arms over his chest.  “And I told you that you don’t dictate who I spend my time with.”

Chris’ rejoinder was interrupted by Derek walking back out and untwisting the cap to a water bottle.  Stiles turned to watch him too, wearing a look of exaggerated confusion – just so Derek would know precisely how ridiculous Stiles found him.  Where the fuck did he keep those things?  And it had to be warm anyway, it’s not like the overgrown _ruins_ of his old house had a refrigerator, or the electricity to power it even if it did.  Derek was so fucking weird. 

Derek cocked his hip up against the banister on the porch.  It had to piss Chris off that Derek was treating him like he wasn’t a threat.  “What do you want, Argent?”

Chris shot a glare at Stiles before answering.  “I came here to tell you to stay away from my son.” 

“Stiles can take care of himself,” Derek said easily.

Damn straight, Stiles could.  Stiles would have to remind Derek of that the next time he pulled that mother hen shit and tried to keep Stiles from splitting off.

Chris clenched his jaw so tight that even Stiles could hear it creak.  “I didn’t say he couldn’t,” he gritted out.  “He won’t have to however, because you are going to leave him alone.”

That was enough.  Stiles wasn’t going to let Chris talk about him like he wasn’t there, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him make decisions for him.  He stalked up to Chris, not stopping until he was in his face.  “He’s the only friend I’ve _ever_ had.”  Stiles licked his lower lip and took a step back.  Chris blinked and Derek straightened up in his periphery, taking a few automatic steps forward before stopping himself.  The only way to sell this was honesty; complete, _humiliating_ honesty.  He didn’t _want_ Chris to feel like he had to fight this.  He wanted Chris’ acceptance, however grudging.  “Except for you,” Stiles admitted, “and you—” Stiles forced his voice to stay level, “That changed.  You already took it away once.  You _can’t_ do it again.  I won’t let you.”

“Stiles,” Chris started.  He swallowed hard and didn’t meet Stiles’ eyes.  “I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

Stiles shrugged, forcing himself not to feel it all over again.  “Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”  Or the fact that he didn’t think Derek would, ever.  They were too alone to give up the connection they had between them, no matter how weak it might get.

Chris sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.  “Let’s get you home.”

Stiles cringed at hearing it called that but he nodded all the same.  He could tell Chris was considering staying out of it and that was more than he’d thought he’d get.  He knew he’d unfairly guilted him into it but he hadn’t lied to put that guilt there.  Chris slid a hand over his neck when Stiles got close enough, squeezing slightly.  “Kate’s already asked about you twice,” he said tiredly.

Derek finished his aborted walk down the steps. 

Chris turned around instantly.  “I didn’t tell her about you,” he said guardedly, eyes gauging Derek’s every move.

Derek ignored him, looking to Stiles.  “I don’t want you in the same house as her,” he said evenly and Stiles thought this might be Derek’s idea of returning the sentiment behind Stiles’ earlier words about Kate.  And it was kind of perfect.  They’d now both admitted, without speaking it aloud, that they cared about the other’s well being.  It was more than Stiles ever would have thought he’d give and undoubtedly more than Derek ever thought he’d get.

Now it was almost certainly reversed.

Stiles rolled his shoulders, an uncomfortable prickling between them.  “You’ve just said it, I can take care of myself.”  He glanced at Chris.  “And, whatever you may think, Chris wouldn’t let anything happen.”

Chris’ head whipped around to stare at him, eyes hawk-like.  “I wouldn’t,” he agreed, wondering, like he hadn’t thought Stiles knew it.

It was fair.  Sometimes Stiles’ mind tried to trick him into thinking Chris was just as wicked as the rest of his family but, in the end, Stiles knew better.  Alli was right.  Chris would lie down and die for him if it came down to it.

Derek shifted his gaze over to Chris and all out sneered.  “I know why you really don’t want werewolves around you and your son, Argent,” he growled, threat in the grit of his teeth.

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, wondering what the hell Derek was talking about, but Chris clearly wasn’t experiencing the same confusion.  His face had gone pale, expression somewhere between resigned and pained, and Stiles felt a sudden and unexpected surge of protectiveness.  There was a violent part of him that wanted to pull out his knife and stab it into Derek’s side, hear his hiss of pain.  He didn’t want to kill him but he did want to hurt him for whatever he’d just done to Chris.  He may not have understood it but he knew it had been designed to sting.

“Back the fuck off, Derek,” Stiles snapped at him.  Chris was willing to try to accept their friendship – something that went against _everything_ he knew – and Derek was lashing out at him because he was ratcheted up about Kate.

Derek actually fell back a few steps and Stiles regretted how harsh he’d been.  Their tentative relationship was too fragile, and the two of them too suspicious and paranoid, for even the slightest dent not to be potentially fatal.

Stiles frowned at him in apology.

Derek looked slightly warier than he had before but he dipped his chin in concession.

Stiles breathed a little more freely and promised, “I’ll be careful.”  He waited until Derek’s nostrils had stopped flaring to turn away from him and make the trek back to the house with Chris.

He was stiff and silent at Stiles’ side and Stiles wondered again what Derek knew that he didn’t.  Whatever it was, Stiles would get it out of him before long.

* * *

Stiles avoided Kate and her ‘I kill puppies for sport’ smirk at every turn.  He was relieved as fuck to have an excuse to get out of the house, jumping on the text from an unknown sender: 

_Two more were killed by the Alpha last night.  Where can I meet you?_

Stiles grinned, not even surprised that Derek had managed to get his number.  He was far more intelligent than Stiles ever would have guessed, which he thought might have been purposeful on Derek’s part.  He _was_ surprised that Derek had a cell phone of his own.  He just gave off that whole ‘I live in a boxcar and wash myself in the river’ vibe.  Stiles texted back:

_Library in ten._

He would’ve bet money that if Kate weren’t there, Derek would have come straight to the house just to piss Chris off.  And to let him know how seriously he took the order to stay away from Stiles.  He was kind of suicidally stupid that way.  Stiles headed back up the stairs and grabbed his laptop.  He was shoving his phone back into his pocket when Kate’s claws-on-a-cage voice stopped him.  “And where are you off to with that grin and your computer, Eggbert?”  She caught up to him and walked two fingers down his chest.  “Meeting a girl?” she purred.  Stiles shook her off.  “Or maybe a boy, I’m sure that would get my dear brother’s panties the wettest.”

Stiles turned around and sneered at her.  He opened his mouth to tell her exactly where the fuck she could shove her curiosity when Chris turned the corner from the kitchen and found them.

“Where are you going?” he asked, gauging their level of hostility carefully.  Stiles thought it was as much genuine question as it was distraction tactic.

Stiles raised his eyebrows meaningfully.  “The library, to meet a friend.”

Chris’ mouth pursed before it eased again, likely so Kate wouldn’t be able to read his disapproval.  Chris tipped his chin towards him.  “Be careful.”

Stiles saluted and left before Kate could get even one vile word out of her hateful mouth.  He walked briskly towards the public library in ‘downtown’ Beacon Hills.  That was one thing Stiles could say in favor of the town, everything was within walking distance.

Derek was already waiting for him by the time he showed up outside, seven minutes later.  His nostrils flared and he shot up from where he was leaning against the sign.  “Her scent’s all over you,” he said, breathing through his mouth and looking like he might be sick.  Stiles couldn’t imagine what kind of memories that scent stirred in him, but the pure  _hate_ on Derek’s face gave some clue.

Stiles shrugged.  “She’s not big on keeping her hands to herself.”   _As you well know_ , he didn’t say.  Mostly because Derek didn’t deserve to hear it.

Derek pulled off his leather jacket and shoved it, hard, into Stiles’ chest.  “Wear it, I can’t stand the smell of you.” 

Stiles’ mouth tipped to the side as he said sarcastically, “Gee, thanks.”  He knew it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that Derek couldn’t handle the scent of Kate for the next however long, no matter what it had attached itself to.  He handed off his laptop to Derek, who walked inside with it without waiting for him while he pulled on Derek’s stupid jacket.  Nice guy, that Derek.  Stiles found him again without much effort and he already had a desk in the back picked out and the laptop open on it.

Stiles pulled up the police database while Derek told him the names just like the last time.  “Reddick and Unger,” Stiles repeated, popping his mouth and humming.  His eyes scanned the reports and he said with feigned surprise, “Wouldn’t you know it?  They’re arsonists, too.”

Derek sank down into the seat next to him rather than hovering over his shoulder, dropping into it bonelessly.  He pressed the pads of his fingers to his forehead.  “I don’t understand who could be doing this.”  There was shame and despair in the lines around his mouth.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.  “What did you do?”

Derek shook his head.

“Tell me.”

Derek looked up at him and his expression was _broken_.  “I dug her up.”  Stiles blinked at him.  “I thought… It _had_ to be her.  Laura was the only one left to care.”

Stiles swallowed and said carefully, “Derek, Laura’s dead.”

“ _I know that_ ,” Derek snapped back, earning them a few glares from the people nearest them.  Stiles glared back at them until they looked away again.  Derek shrunk into himself a little and clenched a hand in his hair.  “It was the only thing that even remotely made sense.”  He looked sick over the fact that he had said anything to Stiles at all.

Stiles waved that away.  “We’ll figure it out,” he said firmly.  He bit his lip and decided to tell Derek what he’d been considering for the past few days.  “We should visit your uncle.  I know you said he’s catatonic,” Stiles went on quickly, before Derek could protest, “but he’s the only one left who might know anything.”

“He _can’t_ tell us anything even if he wanted to,” Derek argued, clearly frustrated with him.

Stiles shrugged.  “So let’s go let him stare blankly at us then.  It’s better than nothing, Derek, because I don’t know what else to do.”

Derek sighed.  He was quiet for a long moment before he said simply, “Fine.”

* * *

Letting Derek’s uncle stare blankly at them was a lot more creepy than Stiles had anticipated.  “This is quite possibly the creepiest thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

“You’re the one who wanted to do this,” Derek reminded him.

“I know,” Stiles snapped, much more sharply than he’d meant to.  He leaned down and stared into Peter Hale’s unseeing eyes.  “Dude, does he even blink?  That can’t be good for his ocular health.”  Stiles squinted.  “Mr. Hale?   _Blink_.”  He dragged the last word out, elongating the ‘L’ obnoxiously.

Derek punched him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise.  “He’s not a sideshow freak.”  He scowled.

“Fine, dude.”  Stiles rubbed his arm.  “You need to work on using your words, Blue Suede Hues.”

Derek’s expression went tight the way it always did when Stiles mentioned the color of his eyes.  “You are such a fucking shit,” Derek croaked after he’d let the words sink in.

Yeah, Stiles was.  Even when he wanted to be better, he couldn’t seem to pull it off.  He knocked Derek with his shoulder, which was already aching.  “Takes one to know one.”  He looked back at Peter, trying not to stare at the burns that made him feel half-sick on the side of his face.  He leaned in with a hand on either side of the arms of Peter’s wheelchair.  “Right, so, Pete, my man.  Any chance you know the Alpha werewolf who’s knocking off conspirators in the Hale fire like it’s their own private vendetta?  Derek, here,” Stiles nodded to him, “seems to think there’s no one left to take it personally.”

Dude still didn’t so much as blink.  It was unsettling.

Stiles sighed and straightened back up, looking at Derek, who was smirking.  Stiles rolled his eyes.  “Okay, yes, you win.  My plan amounted to nothing but creepy-bad feelings.  You don’t have to look so fucking smug about it.  It’s unappealing, all right?”  He wiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans.  “Have they got a cafeteria around here?  I could just about murder some Jello.  And I totally will if it starts looking at me funny, or sprouting fur.  I’ve been trained up right.”  He glanced back at Derek purposefully.  “Well, _one_ lapse in judgment but I’m sure you’ll do something to piss me off before long and I’ll put it right.”

Derek shook his head, snorting as he cracked the open door even further for Stiles, reaching over his shoulder to pull it wide.  “Out of the two of us, who’s more likely to provoke the other to murder first?”

Stiles frowned thoughtfully and admitted, “Okay, you got me there.”  He paused out in the hall, letting Derek lead.  Instead, Derek fell into step beside him.  “So, okay, let’s reason this out.”  He glanced at Derek who dipped his chin to show he was listening.  “Someone’s murdering everyone who was involved with either covering up or setting the Hale fire.  Which implies they either lost something there personally or have some reason to start silencing people.  I would think Kate.”

Derek’s brow jumped up once, like he’d considered it too.

“But I know for a fact she wasn’t in Beacon Hills when the first murder was committed.  And, dude, where this whole thing falls apart is Laura.”

Derek shoved him in the shoulder, the leather squeaking as Stiles found himself being pushed into the cafeteria.  Stiles blinked.  He had been sixty-seven percent kidding about that.  He stared at Derek a little shrewdly, watching him take down a tray, before shaking it off.

“She doesn’t fit the pattern.  She didn’t have anything to do with the fire.  If anything, she was a victim of it.  I mean, I’m assuming, right?”

Derek grunted out an affirmative, holding up a thing of green Jello for Stiles’ approval.

Stiles shook his head.  “Orange,” he said distractedly, half-annoyed Derek had interrupted his train of thought.  “Okay, we’ll write her off as an anomaly for now.”

Derek also picked up an egg salad sandwich.  Which, ew.  He spread his hand out over the display, clearly inviting Stiles to pick something too.

Stiles waved dismissively at him.  “So, we’ve got the insurance investigator and three arsonists.”  He counted on his fingers.  “We can assume Kate’s on the list as a potential victim rather than a potential suspect.  Who else would be involved in setting a fire?  Who’s another conspirator that might benefit from making sure no one could be mauled by a conscience and confess?”

Derek grabbed up two bottles of water with a questioning look at Stiles.  Stiles nodded and Derek paid for their food, the woman behind the register batting her eyelashes at Derek with red high in her cheeks.

Derek didn’t seem to notice.

He found them a table in the corner – two walls at his back, easily defensible, while Stiles followed, deep in thought.  Derek unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite, screwing up his face.  He pointed at Stiles with the side he’d taken the bite out of.  “Maybe the person who told them how to set the fire and make it look like an accident?”  Derek shrugged.  “The fire marshal couldn’t conclusively state arson so they either paid him to lie, like they did with the Myers guy, or someone showed them how to muddy the waters.”

Stiles blinked at him.  “ _Dude_ , I could kiss your brain.” 

Derek blanched.  “Please don’t.”

Stiles ignored him.  “Okay, that would actually sound pretty plausible if not for the whole: ‘these murders were _definitely_ done by a wolf’ thing.”  Stiles frowned in thought.  “Oh God, Derek, what if this mystery conspirator is colluding with a werewolf?”  Stiles’ gaze grew pained.  “What if Laura was its payment?  What if whoever’s responsible lured her back here so the wolf could kill her and become an Alpha?”

Derek dropped his sandwich, staring down at the tray with a dull expression, no longer looking even the slightest bit hungry.  “You think my sister’s life was a… bargaining chip?”  His voice came out small.

Stiles almost reached over to him but diverted halfway through and snatched up his Jello cup instead.  “We’ll find whoever it is, Derek, and we’ll make them pay.  I promise you.”  His expression hardened and his voice went icy.  “And then it’ll be Kate’s turn.”

Derek didn’t respond, but his mouth grew tighter.  Stiles opened his Jello and squeezed the sides of the cup to squish it into his mouth, allowing Derek a moment to gather himself without drawing attention to it.  Let no one say that Stiles didn’t have his moments of sensitivity.

“You’re disgusting.”

Stiles opened his mouth and showed Derek how packed it was with Jello. 

Derek actually huffed out a small laugh.  “ _Completely_ disgusting.”

Stiles snorted, which made Jello threaten to go up his nose.  He swallowed it down before it could.  “Whatever, I could fucking win like… beauty pageants.  I don’t think you’re ready for this Jello.”

Derek looked away from him, out the windows along the wall, his lips twitching up.  “I’m not talking to you anymore,” he decided.

Stiles shrugged, unconcerned.  “Whatever, my charm – much like my undeniable physical appeal – is completely irresistible.”  His phone buzzed in his pocket and Derek’s head twitched back towards him while he pulled it out.  Stiles read the text, his face draining of color.

Derek went alert in an instant.  “What is it?”

Stiles swallowed.  “Chris sent a text.  He wants to know where I am.  There’s blood on the landing and he can’t get a hold of Kate.”  Stiles met Derek’s knowing gaze.  “Derek,” Stiles’ throat bobbed, “I didn’t close the mountain ash line after I let you in.”

Derek’s eyes widened.  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly and Stiles wondered if Derek could appreciate the irony of _him_ saying those words.

It could have easily been Chris or Allison and it would have been Stiles’ own negligence that had led to it.  He breathed deeply, trying to calm the racing of his heart.  Derek didn’t say anything, though Stiles could tell he was itching to.  He just let Stiles work through his own fear.  Stiles shook it away after a long moment.  It didn’t matter what _might have_ happened.  Chris and Alli were safe and that was all that mattered.  He looked at Derek.  “This has got to be the culmination of it, right?  Killing Kate, I mean, this whole thing was her show.”

Derek nodded tightly.  He clenched his hand into a fist on the table and said, “Unless I’m the last piece.”

Stiles frowned and said softly, “You didn’t have anything to do with it.  You were a victim as much as anyone else, maybe even more.  Not even the thing responsible for all this could think—” He cut himself off, not able to go down that path again.  Derek knew his stance on all that.  And it wasn’t about to change.  He asked, leading, “If you were the Alpha, where would you go to finish this?”  Stiles watched the penny drop just as his phone rang.  He picked it up instantly.  Chris’ voice was strained and verging on panic.  “Stiles?  You aren’t at the library, where the hell are you?”

“I’m with Derek, I’m safe.” 

There was a shaky exhalation on Chris’ end and then: “Thank God.  I need you to stay away from the house.”

Stiles shared a brief glance with Derek and decided.  “Chris, I think she’s got to be at the old Hale house.  Someone’s been killing everyone connected to the fire.”

There was an uneasy silence, while Derek stared at him, eyes full of the rawest betrayal.  “Who?” Chris finally croaked.

Stiles shook his head.  “We don’t know.”

“Stiles,” and there was an actual _pleading_ tug to the word, “stay away from it.  Promise me.”

Stiles swallowed.  “I can’t,” he said, and it was even somewhat regretful. 

“Stiles, damn it, you might _die_.  Do you understand that?  I nearly lost you less than a year ago and you want to walk straight into this knowing you might not come out the other side.  I don’t have the time or the patience to listen to you be suicidally reckless.  Stay the hell away from this, I mean it.  Derek, I know you’re listening, you keep my son out of this or I’ll make sure you don’t live to see the sun rise.”  Chris hung up the second after the last word was out, not giving anyone a chance to respond.

There was a tense silence between them and then Derek said gruffly, “He’s right.  I shouldn’t bring you into this.”

Stiles glared at him.  “Is that what you think happened here?” he said coldly.  Derek didn’t answer.  “If it is, then you’re the most self-centered fuck I’ve ever met.  I understand that your whole family is dead but so is _mine_.  The only difference is that it took the death of _one_ person to wipe mine out.  These people, all of them, they killed my _dad_.  This is every bit my fight as much as it is yours, you selfish prick.”  To his horror, he could feel tears starting to build.  He stood up and hissed, “ _That’s_ why I told Chris where we were going, because we need all the help we can get.  But he thinks I’m an idiot and you think I’m a traitor.  So that’s just fucking great.”  His voice was hoarse and bottoming out stupidly and Stiles started to back away before he could make an even bigger fool of himself.

Derek grabbed his wrist before he could leave.  “I don’t think—You haven’t done anything wrong,” he said finally, his eyes hooded.  He flexed his jaw.  “And Argent doesn’t think you’re an idiot.”  His sharp gaze met Stiles’.  “You think he hates you,” he guessed.  Stiles shrugged, not willing to admit as much out loud.  Derek tilted his head, as if he was considering it.  “Maybe he does,” he smirked, “but not for any of the reasons you think.”

Stiles furrowed his brow.

“He wants to fuck you,” Derek said bluntly while Stiles fell back, only Derek’s grip on his wrist keeping him from stumbling.  “You got in his face in the Preserve.  You licked your lip when you were making your point and,” Derek’s smirk widened, “he didn’t hide his reaction well.”

“You’re wrong,” Stiles got out, his voice breathy.  “You have to be.”

“I’m not,” Derek told him simply.  “I’m betting it’s why he is the way he is with you.”  He shrugged while Stiles tried to pull air into his lungs, which suddenly wouldn’t expand properly.

His chest heaved and he shook his head.  There wasn’t time for this.  And it was moot besides; Derek was  _wrong_.  “We have to get to the Preserve.”

Derek didn’t argue.

Stiles started to run out, towards the front, but Derek grabbed him by the arm and led him back down the hall.  “There’s another way out,” Derek told him, shoving Stiles forward, and Stiles changed direction seamlessly.  He was nearly at the other end of the hall when he realized Derek was no longer with him.

Stiles stopped and saw him frozen outside the door to his uncle’s room.  Stiles took a step towards him as worst case scenarios started playing themselves out in his head.  “Derek?”

Derek turned to look at him, his expression _lost_ and young.  “He’s gone.”

“What?”  Stiles ran up to him, half-expecting to find Derek’s uncle with his throat slashed from ear to ear.   Instead, the wheelchair Peter Hale had vacuously occupied only a half hour ago was empty of creepy werewolf.  Understanding slammed home.  “Shit.  Shit, shit, _shit_.  He was right fucking _here_ , under our ass-tastic non-investigative noses and not blinking.  I bet that bitchy nurse helped him sneak in and out.  Never trust redheads, dude.”

Derek swallowed tightly, expression hard.  “Stiles, he killed my sister.”

Stiles heard what he wasn’t saying.   _He'd killed his_ niece.  That sure as fuck didn’t bode well for Derek.  Stiles breathed deeply, nodding to himself.  “And we’re going to get him back for that but we have to keep moving.”  Stiles gripped Derek’s bicep tightly, half to snap him out of it and half because Derek was his friend and this was a shitstorm of epic proportions.  Solidarity and all that.

Derek’s head dipped in agreement and he followed when Stiles tugged him away.  It didn’t take long for Derek to lose him; better, stronger, faster and all the other Steve Austin adjectives.  And Stiles _still_ didn’t have anything better than a fucking bowie knife on him.  Chris had sure as hell taught him better than that. 

He felt his heart try to jump into his throat at the thought of Chris, a strange flutter brushing the lining of his stomach and a half-sick feel in his mouth.  There wasn’t time for him to linger on that, not as he was skidding up to the front of the house, crashes and snarls emanating from inside it.

A hand closed around the scruff of his neck and hauled him around.  “I told you to stay away from this.”

“And I told you I wouldn’t,” he shot back, off-beat and shaky, staring at the fierceness in Chris’ eyes.  At least he was until they dropped down to the fabric – the leather – his hand was clenched in.  He could see the second he recognized it as Derek’s in the raise of his lip and the widening of his eyes, disgust and… _jealousy_ heavy there.

Stiles had to be reading that wrong.  A splintering of wood pulled Stiles’ head back around to the matter at hand.  He was about to go charging in when the front door was torn off its hinges, a body tumbling through it.

Derek skidded across the porch, claws digging in to find purchase as he roared back at Peter Hale.  Who was very much bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and looking dapper with his smooth skin and small, unscarred pores.  Not to mention, masterful on his own two feet, a hand tight around Kate Argent’s neck.  “Ah, and now the whole family’s here.”  Peter didn’t even have to let go of Kate to kick Derek in his side – dude had, like, a blackbelt in multi-tasking – and Stiles noticed it was already injured, blood soaking through his shirt.  “Stiles, is it?” Peter asked, rather politely for a psychopath.  Kate could stand to take a few pointers.

Well, after she was done scrabbling against his hand as it closed tighter and tighter around her throat.  One thing at a time.

Peter stared down at Derek, whose arms were shaking as they tried to raise him up, and he clicked his tongue, disappointed.  “You do have a type, don’t you, Derek?”  Peter’s gaze flicked over to Stiles, raking him up and down.  “Hunter, a cruelty streak a mile wide, and guaranteed to end badly.  Maybe I should act the caring uncle and finish him before he can turn around and shove the knife in.”

Derek spat blood onto the floorboards and got out shakily, “Like you did with Laura?”

Red eyes flashed over to meet Derek’s accusing stare.  “You have no idea.”  He pulled back the snarl in his words, reigning in his intensity.  “Six years I sat in that room, regenerating nerves that were _raw_ and exposed, privy to the horrified stares of the nurses as they dressed my burned skin, knowing all that time that Kate Argent was alive and well and _out_ while _I_ was trapped.”  He squeezed his hand tighter around her throat and she wheezed.  “Believing she got away with it,” he added, staring up at her shrewdly, expression almost scientifically curious as he watched her skin take on an even redder tint.  “You left me _no choice_.  If I was an Alpha then I could do what needed to be done, since you were too weak, too broken for it.”

Derek’s whole body trembled and Stiles knew half of what was keeping him down was shame. 

Because he was fucking stupid.  Stiles wasn’t about to let him take this on any more than he was going to let him buy Kate’s bullshit argument for why other people’s batshit insanity was his doing.  “Sure,” he drawled sarcastically, “it’s Derek’s fault you killed some of the last of your family to avenge… your family.  That’s not at all a brand of logic called: psychopathic.” 

Peter’s gaze dipped back over to him with almost lazy disinterest.  He grinned widely.  “Loyal, this one.  At least he pretends it well.”  His eyes strayed over the jacket on Stiles’ shoulders.  “You’d be surprised to find out who wore it before you,” he said with a smirk.

So Peter clearly thought Stiles didn’t know about Kate.  He thought he was dropping hints.  He thought he had the upper hand.  Stiles was going to revel in knocking that smug look off his rat-like face.  He let his eyes rove over Kate’s swollen features.  “You mean Kate?”  Peter’s eyes narrowed.  “Derek told me all about her.”  Lie.  More like Stiles had told _Derek_ all about her.  But hopefully his heartbeat wouldn’t give it away.  It was close enough to the truth at least.  “You don’t know him half as well as you think you do.”

Peter’s lips smoothed into an easy smirk, not knocked even slightly off kilter by the revelation that Stiles _knew_.  “The stories I could tell you about our dear Derek, here.”  His eyes flashed, red poisoning his irises all over again.  “Has he told you why he has blue eyes, Stiles?”

Stiles knew the jump of his heart had given him away even though he’d managed to keep his gaze from cutting over to Derek.

“So the pillow talk doesn’t extend that far.”  Peter affected an exaggerated frown.  “Shame.”  His lips quirked up.  “We’ll have time to discuss it further, I’m sure.  Just you and I, Stiles.  Right now,” his chin jerked towards Kate, “business,” his grin widened, his voice sliding over Stiles’ skin like tendrils, “then pleasure.”  He lifted Kate off the floorboards and she gagged awfully.  “Six years I’ve waited to be strong enough to do this,” he hissed, his mouth widening on either side of sharp teeth as his claws dug into Kate’s neck, clearly intending to rip her throat out.

His moment of victory was stolen out from under him as an arrow hit him in the shoulder, hard enough to spin him and shock him into dropping Kate to the ground.  She coughed, hacking and wheezing, trying to pull air into her lungs while her own fingers came up to cover the marks left behind by Peter’s.

When Peter reared back up, he was half-transformed.  His wolf some twisted halfway point between monster and man.  He roared, claws spread at his sides and pulled Kate back by her hair before she could get away from him and to a weapon.

Stiles spun around and saw Alli aiming through a break in the tree line.  Chris shot Peter in the leg before she could loose another bolt and he howled, releasing Kate and charging for him instead.  Stiles saw Alli reposition, arrow trained on Derek who was dragging himself to his feet, eyes on Peter.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Stiles waited until arrow had left bow to shoulder in front of it.  It hit just below his collarbone, enough power behind it to force it through the other side.  Fuck, it hurt.  For a second, he was alone in the pain of it.  No one else had seen it happen aside from Alli and she was too far away to do anything about it.  Derek threw himself at Peter, who hadn’t seen him coming as he was busy trying to break Chris’ arm.  Kate was up and dragging herself back inside where Peter had undoubtedly divested her of weapons that she now planned to use on him.

Chris managed to break away from Peter’s grip as he wrangled with Derek.  He kept his gun trained on the wolves tearing at each other before he saw Stiles stumble back in his periphery.  His gaze flickered over to him briefly before he registered what he’d seen and it refocused permanently.  “Stiles,” he barked, shocked.

Stiles pressed at the fabric just under the jut of the arrow’s tail and said blankly, “Ow.”

Chris pulled off his own jacket hurriedly, holstering his weapon in the strap on his thigh.

Stiles blinked hard.  He nodded down at it, feeling dizzied.  “Migh’ need that,” he forced out through the _throb_ of pain.

“Quiet,” Chris said tersely, wrapping his jacket’s sleeve around his hand and reaching up for the shaft of the arrow that had come out the other side of Stiles’ shoulder.  He wrapped his covered hand around it carefully, bracing his free one against the middle of Stiles’ back.  “I’m going to pull it out.  Ready?”

Stiles stared at him.  Chris, right now, was _remarkably_ unaware of his surroundings.  It was literally the first thing he’d ever taught Stiles and Alli after they’d found out the werewolf-hunting family secret: Always be aware of your surroundings.  Chris’ had faded away the instant he’d seen Stiles was hurt.  Stiles stared harder.  “You’re in love with me.”

Chris swallowed.  “Are you ready, Stiles?” he asked, voice frayed.

Stiles blinked, nodded.

Chris _yanked_ and the bolt pulled through in one smooth motion that made Stiles lose his breath completely.  He fought not to purge everything he had in his stomach.  Chris threw the arrow aside after sniffing at the point of it.  “You’ll be fine,” he said gruffly.

Stiles didn’t say ‘unless he wasn’t.’  That wasn’t what Chris needed to hear right now.  “I will,” Stiles agreed, as though that was obvious, forcing his sluggish brain to _focus_.  He was _fine_.  He waved at the gaping hole in his shoulder with his opposite arm.  “But I can’t lift a weapon and you can, so you should probably stop patching up the dude who’s clearly going to be fine.” 

“Stiles—” Chris started, face drawn.

“Is the dude who’s gonna be fine, in case you missed it.”  He let his gaze wander over to Derek and he was surprised to discover what Chris had done.  He hadn’t just tossed the arrow anywhere.  He’d tossed it to Derek, who was stabbing it into Peter’s side as Peter held Derek down by the throat.

A clatter near the front of the house drew Stiles’ attention around and Stiles saw Kate was loading shells into a rifle, wobbling slightly on a clearly broken leg, falling into the doorframe as she tried to balance herself enough to cock it.  Chris raised his own gun, leveling it on Peter’s back, finger already squeezing the trigger.  Stiles knocked it to the side, and the bullet smacked into the trunk of a tree three feet to Peter’s left.

Chris’ head snapped around to him, his eyes violent.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Stiles gritted his teeth, digging his palm in against the steady flow of blood coming from his shoulder.  “I was thinking you were aiming at the wrong person.  And you fucking _know_ it.”  Chris’ expression was closed off, eyes pinched, but Stiles wasn’t going to let him get away with hiding from this.  Not again.  “She killed my dad,” he hissed.  “She killed my dad and you knew.”  Chris’ eyes widened but he didn’t deny it.  “You let your guilt get you this far,” Stiles told him, voice hard.  “Let it pull the fucking trigger, too.”

Chris’ fingers squeezed the grip, loosening and tightening by turns.  “I didn’t want to believe she’d done it.”  He swallowed hard.  “I had no proof.”

Stiles bet he hadn’t looked for any either, he hadn’t _wanted_ to know.  He wasn’t sure if he could blame Chris for that though.  Kate was family, however fucked in the head.  Stiles lowered his gaze, forcing himself not to sway on his feet, and he dug his hand in harder.  The flash of pain helped to shock him alert.  “But you knew,” he said quietly.  “You knew what she did, to me,” his eyes flittered away in the direction of Derek and Peter, “to Derek.”  Stiles brought his gaze back to look straight into Chris’, he kept his expression firm but sincere.  “If you let her get away with it again, I’ll never forgive you,” he said simply.  “I’ll hate you until my very last breath.”

Kate balanced the rifle against her shoulder, not caring that Peter was no longer the wolf in her line of sight.  She took aim at the back of Derek’s head and the sound of the shot was like a canon.

Likely because Stiles had been standing so close to the gun that had fired it.  Kate keeled over instantly, one bullet, right in the ten range.  No one could argue that Stiles’ dad wasn’t a brilliant shot.

Peter froze as Kate’s heart beat its last and Derek took the moment of calm to slice his claws across his neck.  Peter died slower, more painfully, and Stiles wondered if Derek had designed it that way.  For Laura.

He stood up slowly and Stiles watched him carefully.  “Derek?”

Derek breathed deeply, his back heaving before he turned, red eyes glowing brightly.  Stiles couldn’t help the unease it inspired in him, eyes like those bearing down on him was the stuff of his worst nightmares.  He looked away, the quick motion making him nauseous.  He caught sight of his own shoulder.  “Aw, dude,” he said weakly, “sorry about your jacket.”

Derek’s face fell but Stiles was distracted from him by Alli’s voice.  “You moved right in front of it,” she was saying, voice pitched high.  “Stiles, I—You moved _right in front of it_.”

Chris took the shirt she was holding out to him and pressed it to the wound in Stiles’ shoulder.  “It’s fine,” he said tightly.  “Through and through, he’ll be fine.  It’s just maintenance from here on out.”

“Why would you move in front of it?” Alli demanded, voice going higher, accusing.  “It was meant for Derek and he moved right in front of it!”

Stiles couldn’t help but notice the way Chris stiffened at the mention of Derek, their faces close together while he tried to staunch the blood flow.

Then Derek was _there_ , at his side, uncaring of Chris or Alli – though it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that either of them might take the opportunity to end him.  His hand circled Stiles’ wrist and Stiles noticed it was the only bit of him that wasn’t retaining any wolf – the sideburns were still there, the fangs too and the nails of his other hand were still sharp and long.  He couldn’t relax around so much _threat_ but he’d managed to pull it back just enough so he wouldn’t so much as accidentally hurt Stiles.

Big Softie-Wolf.

Derek’s expression was grim as he examined the wound.  “Why would you move in front of it?” he echoed Alli, voice a soft murmur.

Stiles’ grin went the slightest bit _cracked_.  “Because you deserve nice things, Derek.”  His head felt fuzzy and warm, the pain in his shoulder starting to fade to nothing.

“Let go of him,” Chris snarled and Stiles looked down to see lines of black, like tar, sluggishly climbing up the veins of Derek’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, awed.  He’d never seen anything like it.

“Taking your pain,” Derek said darkly.

Stiles’ eyes widened.  “Since when can werewolves do _that_?”  He looked back at Chris but Chris wasn’t looking at him.  He was glaring at Derek like he wanted to rip him apart.  He dug his blunt nails into Derek’s forearm.

“He needs to feel the pain.  If you take it from him, I have no way of knowing how bad it’s gotten.”  Derek removed his hand in an instant.  Stiles didn’t miss the way Chris grabbed his wrist in the exact same place Derek had, pulling it away from him.  He doubted Derek had missed it either.  Scent only mattered to wolves and yet still Chris had to make sure that Derek’s didn’t linger on him.

Stiles grinned to himself.  “Dude, you can have your jacket back now.  I’m betting I don’t smell even a _bit_ like Blondie McCorpse over there.  I’ve got a whole eau de insides thing going on.”  Chris winced and Stiles pretended he hadn’t seen it.  He didn’t feel bad about Kate.  He did feel bad that Chris had had to be the one to do it.

Derek smirked while Stiles pushed Chris back far enough that he could shrug out of Derek’s jacket.  Derek took it back without argument, though he did perk a dark brow and say, “I’m never loaning you anything again.”

Stiles nodded once, sharp.  “Probably smart.  I’m just gonna bleed all over it as I think we’ve proven today.”

Chris’ hand was back, no longer pressing to his shoulder but instead sliding over the curve of his neck, his expression solemn.  “The fever’s starting.  We need to get you home before it climbs any higher.”  To Stiles’ complete and utter shock, Chris nodded to Derek before he steered Stiles away.   _Nodded_.  To _Derek_.  He _nodded_ to the _werewolf_ he thought Stiles was _fucking_.  Stiles blinked at him, stumbling along in Chris’ leading grip.  If he hadn’t been sure before then he was certain now.  That had been for him.  Completely and utterly.  Because Chris _loved_ him, unselfishly and fiercely.  It scared the shit out of him.

Alli haunted their steps from behind, her lips trembling, and Stiles stopped.

Chris stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment.  Stiles ignored him, turned around and pulled Alli up against his good side, hugging her hard.  “You didn’t do this.  I did.”

“To protect Derek.”  It wasn’t a question.

Stiles shrugged, knowing she didn’t understand it and that that was his fault, too.  He’d been the one to shut her out, her quiet mourning too much for him to take.  “He had this kickass leather jacket, you see.  I’d even conned him into letting me _wear_ it.  I was totally going to pull an: ‘Oh man, I forgot to return it’ and then fake-lose it in the minutia of my room.  Then you went and put a huge hole in it, rendered the whole scheme moot.”

Alli’s lips twitched slightly.  “I believe _you_ were the one who made sure I would hit it.  I wasn’t aiming anywhere close to you.”

Stiles feigned consideration, Chris tugging him to walk again and Alli falling into step beside him.  “All right, maybe the plan changed when I realized what you were up to.  I figured he probably wouldn’t even _want_ it back if I bled on it a little, right?  Had to make it look like an accident though, you know how it goes.”  He twirled his hand around lazily.  “I miscalculated, which I’m going to go ahead and call your fault somehow.” 

Allison grinned full out and rolled her eyes.  “Sounds legitimate.”

Kate was dead.  Someone was going to have to explain that to her.  But at least Stiles had assuaged some of her confusion over Derek.  It was clear enough from that, that they were friendly.  Stiles had no doubt she would grill him about when and why that had happened later but she was a smart enough girl to know that, for now, what connected them was the fire and what they’d lost to it.

Stiles stumbled, falling against Chris as his leg gave out beneath him.

“Stay conscious,” Chris said gravely.

Stiles struggled back up to his feet and bit his lip.  “ _Obviously_ I’d rather be conscious,” he snapped weakly, “being carried isn’t exactly going to help my manly image.”  It was barely six steps later before his vision was flickering in and out while he tried to cling to reality.  He could hear Chris’ voice coming to him through a haze of distortion.  He couldn’t make out the words.  He sank to his knees, the ground coming up fast before everything went blessedly dark.

* * *

Stiles was _freezing_.  His entire body felt numb, cold like ice had been shoveled into his insides.  His teeth chattered, lips quivering, as he became aware of the water that sloshed up around his neck.  Ice cubes clinked together as he tried to sit up, goosebumps blossoming over every inch of exposed skin, while a hand pressed against his chest to hold him down.

“Your fever spiked,” came Chris’ voice from beside the tub.  He was kneeling next to Stiles’ torso, his expression blank.  “It means the wolfsbane is working its way out of your system.”

“I was carried, wasn’t I?  Manliness dashed,” Stiles said forlornly, the words oddly punctuated by the clack of his teeth.  He swallowed and it felt like it took a long time to move down his throat.  His shoulder twinged and Stiles could feel the bandage wrapped tightly around it even if he could only see the vague outline of it under his wet, white t-shirt.  He blinked, Chris’ words finally filtering through his frozen brain.  “As long as it’s not a necrophilia thing,” he decided.

Chris ignored him, expression unchanging.

Stiles blinked around the empty bathroom, the lighting harsh, and he realized he wasn’t in the one he and Alli shared but rather the one off the master bedroom.  Which reminded him.  “Where’s Alli?”

Chris’ mouth pursed.  “Returning Kate’s necklace to her.”

Stiles frowned at him but Chris explained no further.  Stiles shivered violently and Chris’ hand moved up to his uninjured shoulder, squeezing in sympathy.

He paused, looking thoughtful, and added, “I doubt she’ll be back tonight as she spends all her time with that McCall boy anyway.”  Stiles’ frown deepened and Chris’ brows rose.  “Her boyfriend.”

Stiles gaped at him.  “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.”

Chris’ expression closed off all over again.  “You’ve been… absent.”  Even though he tried to hide it, Stiles could see the pain in every line of his somber face as he said it.

“I wasn’t fucking Derek.  I’m not.  He was never… _that_.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed, his mouth drawing down as he lowered his head in thought.  Stiles touched his cold fingers to Chris’ forearm, wrapping them around the fabric of his jacket carefully.  Chris didn’t seem to notice.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Stiles asked simply.

Chris didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about.  He only looked back at Stiles with dull eyes and said, “No.”

Stiles drew himself up to his knees in front of Chris, water sluicing off of him where it didn’t cling to his shirt and jeans, weighting them down.

Chris blinked up at him and Stiles could tell that he knew what was coming, and he could also tell that he wouldn’t be stopped.  He leaned down and pressed his icy lips to Chris’ pursed ones.  He placed his hands on Chris’ shoulders, Chris’ own still clinging to his sopping shirt, and lightly massaged the curve of them as he let his mouth open against Chris’.

He kissed him slow and deep, Chris tilting his head and following his lead entirely.  He wasn’t going to press, Stiles realized.  This was entirely in Stiles’ hands.  Knowing that, Stiles pushed Chris back until he was supporting himself with his hands behind him, ass on the floor and thighs spread wide.

Stiles fell out of the tub, dripping wet and leaving puddles of water everywhere he landed.  Chris reached up, his fingers sliding around to cup the cold curve of Stiles’ neck, before pulling him in for a kiss.  Stiles worked at the seam of Chris’ lips, sucking each of them into his mouth, nibbling the lower one until he finally let them fall open.  Stiles’ tongue slid inside slow, curled around Chris’ and sucked.

Chris moaned and his thighs spread wider and Stiles pressed up against him and, God, he was warm against Stiles’ icy skin.  Stiles pushed closer, until their chests were tight against each other’s and Chris’ other hand was dipping down the back of his jeans, over his ass, uncaring of the way the suction stuck them to the back of his hand.

Stiles’ skin prickled further while he pushed harder against Chris with his mouth, dragging out slow, filthy kisses from him.  It was impossible to tell with how soaked the both of them were but it _felt_ like Chris was _leaking_ against him, their cocks brushing one another’s through their jeans. 

Stiles thrust forward and Chris groaned and pulled back from him.  His face was broken open with emotion and, for the first time, Stiles could read everything he was feeling as though it was written in plainest English.  He looked pained, almost near tears, as he shook his head.  “We can’t.  Not here,” he panted, chest heaving.  “Allison,” he choked out, unable to say more.

Stiles dropped a kiss on Chris’ jaw, his neck, and Chris’ hand tightened on his ass in response, pulling him forward.  Their hips met and Chris couldn’t seem to stop himself from canting his own up to meet Stiles’ again and again.  And Stiles knew, if he pressed, Chris would fuck him right there regardless of who might catch them.  He breathed out hotly against the skin under Chris’ ear and said, “So take me somewhere else.”

Chris clenched his hand in the small of Stiles’ back and rose up on his feet and free hand, pressing into Stiles’ dick with his own and Stiles couldn’t help the groan he released as Christ got them to their feet in the most arousing manner possible.  He didn’t step back once they were standing, their chests still close together.  “You’re freezing,” he said softly against the top of Stiles’ ear.

The resulting shiver had nothing to do with how cold he was.  Stiles leaned up, pressing his lips to the slackness of Chris’.  They came to life almost instantly, responding to him vehemently, wildness fraying the control between them and letting it become a mess of tongues and teeth.  There would be no more tempering from Chris.

Chris was lifting him slightly by the belt loop in the back-middle of his jeans, taking some of his weight as he walked them back into his bedroom.

Stiles tore at Chris’ jacket, dragging it from his arms while Chris’ fingers slowly inched up the heavy, wet hem of his t-shirt.  Stiles fed Chris his tongue, his ferocity, and wasn’t about to pull back to undress until Chris’ thumbs caressed his nipples.  Stiles jolted forward, arching into Chris’ body while Chris smiled against his mouth, and Stiles wanted to feel it as much as he wanted to _bite_ it.  Chris’ smiles were so rare now that Stiles wasn’t sure what to do with it, he only knew he wanted to _keep_ it somehow.

Chris ripped his mouth away and chuckled.  “I had wondered,” he said with a small quirk to his lips, brushing back and forth over the tight buds of Stiles’ nipples.  He stopped long enough to drag Stiles’ waterlogged shirt off over his head, letting it fall – uncaring – to the carpet with a wet _squelch_.  He made a sound, like a catch of breath, while his fingers hesitantly reached out to touch the wiry trail of hair beneath Stiles’ navel.

Stiles swallowed and it hit him with sudden force.  This – _he_ – was Chris’ every fantasy culminating in this single reality.  Stiles didn’t know how long Chris had been after this but the weight of his gaze felt like it’d been carrying _want_ in it for close to forever.  The pressure to live up to a Stiles he would never be was intense.

Chris reached halfway down his own back and pulled off his shirt.

Stiles reached out with cold hands and splayed them over Chris’ warm skin.  It felt forbidden, touching him like this, making him into a real person with a dick and a libido behind it.  He pulled his hands away, not quite sure he was ready for Chris to be that to him yet and fumbled with the catch of his own jeans. 

Chris knocked his icy fingers away, pulled Stiles in by hooking a finger behind the button of his jeans and lingered on a kiss.  Stiles let his hands smooth over Chris’ shoulders, up his neck, under his armpits and down his back.  And Stiles’ shoulder  _should_ hurt.  It didn’t.  Chris pressed closer, something like a whimper passing between their mouths while he yanked at Stiles’ jeans, loosing the button but not the zip before giving up and just tugging them down as hard as he could.

Stiles agreeably stepped out of them, his boxers coming down with them, his feet already bare from the bath.  He didn’t even get a chance to catch Chris’ eye before Chris was dropping to his knees, one palm warm against Stiles’ hip and the other curling around the base of his cock.  He didn’t waste even a moment before he was opening his mouth and drawing Stiles in so deep that Stiles’ toes curled in the carpet.

Stiles helplessly fisted his hands in Chris’ hair, head slowly, _torturously_ bobbing over his dick, fingers clenching into his hip hard enough to bruise while Chris opened his throat and _swallowed_.  One of Stiles’ hands dropped to his shoulder and he bit his nails into his surprisingly sun-freckled skin.  “Stop,” he gasped out and Chris did, instantly.  He pulled away with swollen, red lips, looking almost punch-drunk.

Stiles wanted to pull him up, devour his drool-and-precome-slick mouth but his muscles felt weak and useless so he dropped down instead.  He curled both hands in Chris’ hair and dragged his head forward, slotting their mouths together messily.  He unclenched one of his hands, his fingers already stiff, and let it slip down Chris’ chest.  He scratched through his own trail of bristly hair before slipping his hand down Chris’ jeans and palming his cock.

Chris was _wet_ against his probing fingers and suddenly Stiles had to _see_.  He tugged at Chris’ jeans before managing to make his hands cooperate and flick open the button and pull down the zip.  He pushed them down, his boxers and pants together, the fabric bunching up well before his knees while his cock sprung out. 

“Fuck, you’re _leaking_ ,” Stiles breathed, biting his lower lip while he worked his hand up and down the length of Chris’ dick.  “I didn’t even know anyone _could_ get this wet.”

Chris swallowed and croaked, “Neither did I.” 

Stiles’ head shot up and he stared at Chris, wide-eyed.  He dragged himself up to his feet and moved to drop back onto the bed but Chris caught him by the wrist before he could.  He stood, tugged Stiles close and turned so his own back was to the bed.

Stiles pressed his hands low on Chris’ stomach, pushing him back, Chris’ eyes locked on Stiles’ own as he sunk down on the bed.  He scooted back and Stiles climbed on top on him, dipping down to kiss him while Chris shoved frantically at where his own jeans and boxers were caught on his boots.  He managed to push them all off while Stiles straddled his hips, pressing kiss after kiss to his waiting mouth.

He slipped his tongue in and then hands were smoothing down Stiles’ sides, impatient, and fitting their hips together.  Stiles’ gut clenched while Chris’ hands roamed over his shoulders and back.  Chris pulled his mouth away to press random, chaste kisses to whatever patches of skin he could reach.  Eventually he couldn’t manage to keep up even that, his toes folding in, and Stiles could see the indent in his cheek where he was clearly biting it from the inside while he tried not to moan at every rock of their hips.

Chris wrapped a hand around the both of them and squeezed, his own precome doing more than enough to slick them.  Stiles eased into it slightly and at every tiny push of his hips into Chris’ rhythm, Chris’ dick would twitch.  He bit at Stiles’ lips before pulling away.  He stared up at Stiles, eyes bright.  “Fuck me,” he said hoarsely.

Stiles felt his heart jump into his throat as he tripped over himself to let Chris know how okay with that he was.  He licked his lower lip slowly.  “Jesus fuck, you don’t even need lube, do you?  You’re so fucking ready.”

Chris drew in a shaky breath, his dick twitching against Stiles’ fingers – which had reached out of their own accord.  His forehead fell to rest against Stiles’ collarbone.  “Stiles,” his voice was _raw_ , “please.”

Stiles pumped Chris’ dick single-mindedly, precome smearing all over the both of them.  He finally pulled away when Chris begged him not to make him come so soon.  Fuck, but Stiles wasn’t used to having this much power over someone.   But he did with Chris.

He reached down and brushed a precome-slick finger over his hole.  It fluttered in response and Chris moaned low in his throat, head falling back against the bed.  “Stiles,” he hissed, his voice dropping too low to hear but Stiles thought he might be chanting it.  Stiles pressed inside, and Chris was tight beyond belief.  He had either gone a long fucking time without fucking – and given his marriage to Victoria, that made sense – or he’d never done this.

“ _Fuck_ , Chris.”

Chris swallowed visibly.  “I wouldn’t let myself—couldn’t.”  His throat bobbed, words wild.  “I would’ve thought of you if I—” He shook his head.  “I couldn’t.”

Stiles pressed the heel of his palm to his dick.   _Fuck_.  Had Chris just said he hadn’t even allowed _himself_ to fuck his hole?  “I can be gentle,” he breathed out against Chris’ lips, working his finger deeper inside him.

Chris’ eyes shot open and he scowled.  “Don’t you fucking dare.” 

Stiles smirked and twisted a second finger inside him, scissoring and plunging them deeper.  Chris had planted his feet on the bed and was using the leverage to fuck _back_ into the press of his fingers with viciousness.  Stiles watched the flex of his torso, mouth going dry, while he flattened his palm over the clench of his abdomen, feeling the muscles _work_.

Stiles eased in a third finger and stared down at Chris’ flushed face, and it was like every emotion he’d kept buried over the past few years was breaking free now.  Stiles watched them all play out, awed.  “You’re mine, aren’t you?”  He didn’t mean it possessively and he wasn’t trying to prove a point, Chris was just… _his_.

Chris seemed to catch his meaning, eyes going hooded.  “Yes.”

How the fuck did that happen?  Why the hell had Chris _allowed_ it to?  Stiles couldn’t _have_ anyone.  He could barely even handle the responsibility of a friendship.  This was… he had _all_ of Chris’ happiness and fulfillment and future in his hands.  What the fuck was Chris thinking giving him all of that?

Stiles blinked down at him, irrationally angry suddenly and he thrust in harder with his fingers.

Chris let out a wounded catch of breath and Stiles pulled out, running his hand over Chris’ leaking cock and mixing his copious precome with Stiles’ own, not caring about gentility as he shoved in, in one thrust.  The sensation winded him completely and he had to fight not to lose it.  Chris clenched hard in pain but his only concern was the wince Stiles hadn’t even realized he’d given.

Chris’ hand came up to flutter over his bandaged shoulder.  His eyes searched Stiles’ face.  “If it starts to hurt, we can stop,” he said softly.  “The wolfsbane is still burning its way out of your system.  If you get dizzy, tell me and I’ll ride you instead.” 

Just like that, Stiles’ fury bled away.  Chris hadn’t chosen this.   _No one_ would choose this.  Chris’ own pain was pulling at him, twisting all the way through him, and yet he was only concerned with an ache Stiles barely felt.  “Shut up, Chris,” Stiles said, fondness tugging at his tone.  He pulled out infinitesimally and slowly eased back in.

Chris gasped and Stiles kept up the slow, shallow thrusts until there wasn’t even a twitch of discomfort in Chris’ face.  He pulled Chris’ thigh up around his waist and fucked into him deeper though not faster, not until he found what he was after.  He watched every change in Chris’ expression and finally, _finally_ he watched it blow _wide_.

Stiles grinned and let himself slam into Chris now that he had the angle right.  Chris arched and keened beneath him, pressed back into everything Stiles gave him and pushed for more.  Chris fisted his hands in the sheets while Stiles rolled his hips into him, Chris lifting up to meet him.  Stiles reached down and stroked his cock and it was still just as wet.  He pumped Chris, once, twice, his rolling hips following the drag and drop before Chris tensed beneath him, back arching up and toes curling.

Chris was silent when he came, biting down on his own lips, face twisting into the sheets and chest breaking out in a rose-colored flush.

Stiles wanted to slow down, to savor the moment, but he was too far gone, pitching headlong into his own climax, thrusting deeper into Chris as he loosened with his orgasm.  His hips pumped fast, almost painfully, and Chris was grunting beneath him as Stiles chased his finish.  His head was going fuzzy, throbbing with his own heartbeat, his arms shaking.  He planted his knees, shoving up closer to Chris, his thighs spreading wide around Stiles’ hips as Stiles pushed deeper.

Chris sucked his own lip into his mouth and bit down hard, looking lost to the feel of his body being used and pliant.

Stiles didn’t last out another minute before he was coming deep inside Chris, collapsing on top of him almost instantly.  He literally couldn’t hold himself up, his heart trying to thud its way out of his chest and all his muscles gone tingly and useless.

He rolled off Chris as soon as he felt like it wouldn’t jar his heart into an attack or a stroke or something.  Chris was breathing just as hard as he was.

Stiles blinked up at the ceiling.  He’d just fucked the man who’d been raising him as a son since he was seven-years-old.  Stiles glanced over at him, easing onto his side and curling his hand around the incredible warmth of Chris’ thigh.  He didn’t regret it.

Heat bloomed over Chris’ cheeks and he turned his head away but Stiles could still make out the smile spreading over his lips.  Chris had clearly expected he would.

Stiles cleared his throat, his breaths still coming too fast and too deep.  He swallowed and asked, looking down at himself, “How long have you—”

Chris cut across him, voice hard.  “Never,” he said tensely.  “I’ll never tell you.  You’ll never know.”

Stiles’ skin went tight and he shrunk in on himself.  He felt dismissed and small.  He started to pull away when Chris’ head whipped around, expression almost panicked.  He dragged Stiles in by the small of his back, holding him close, kissing him over and over as though trying to obliterate _all_ thought from Stiles’ head.

It worked.

* * *

When Stiles’ eyes cracked open again, it was still dark and his head was resting on Chris’ warm chest.  A blanket had been pulled up over his shoulder and he felt infinitely warmer than he had when he’d last been awake.  He backed away from Chris carefully, only to find his eyes were open slits in the dark.

Stiles blinked.  “Hi,” he croaked.

Chris flexed his jaw, tilting his head in the direction of the door.  “I don’t think Allison has come back yet.”

Stiles had no idea what he was supposed to do with that.  Did Chris want Stiles to fuck him again?  He would, only his limbs still felt… stringy.  Stiles yawned, caging it with the back of his hand.  “You mentioned something about a necklace.”

Chris nodded guardedly, though he didn’t seem surprised that Stiles had brought it up.  “Family heirloom and, according to the police report on the Hale fire, the only lead the investigators had as to who set it.”  Stiles had seen the drawing of it in the file, stared at it so long that his eyes blurred.  He hadn’t realized it had been Kate’s.  Not that he was particularly shocked by the information.  “They’ll connect her to the arson and undoubtedly attribute all her conspirator’s murders to her as well.” 

Stiles watched him carefully, curling up close to him again and saying quietly, “I never wanted you to be the one to do it.” 

“But you wanted it done.”  It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” Stiles admitted, unrepentant.

Chris slid his fingers between Stiles’ and squeezed.  “Then I’m not sorry I did it.”

Stiles swallowed.  “Chris.” 

Chris stared down at their linked hands.  “You have no idea.  You can’t.”  He looked up at Stiles, tracing the curve of his lower lip with his thumb.  Stiles darted out his tongue before slowly drawing it into his mouth, sucking.  Chris let out a small, brief sound of pleasure, eyes fluttering closed, before he found Stiles’ gaze again.  “I love you,” he said gruffly, words stretched with more meaning than even they could hold, “so _much_.”  A brief flicker of pain crossed his face.  “It feels like you _tore_ something out of me, and the only way I don’t feel like I have this gaping wound inside of me is when you’re there.”  Stiles stared at him unblinkingly.  It didn’t feel poetic and it didn’t feel like a metaphor.  It felt like he was narrating Stiles reaching into him and ripping out something essential, something that had left behind agony and emptiness.  Chris laughed, breathless and unamused.  “Maybe that’s beyond love,” he said darkly, upper lip rising, “maybe it’s _need_ , it feels _violent_ how bad the ache gets.  I’ve never—It’s never been _this_ with anyone else.”

Stiles swallowed, lost for words.  He couldn’t give Chris back that intensity.  He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to, with anyone.  Eventually, he decided on a truth that he thought would satisfy them both.  “You’re the most important person in my life,” he said.  It was true.  Stiles wondered if there would ever be a time that it wasn’t.  Chris had shaped him into everything he was, one way or another.  “You’re everything I am and everything I see for myself in the future.”

Chris looked down, that pained look on his face again, before he surged forward with a broken, “ _Stiles_.”  Chris slotted their mouths together, hot and hungry.  He kissed Stiles until his lips were sore and threatening to split and then he was ravaging his chest and neck, sucking bruises, leaving beard burn, indenting the curve of his teeth.  He didn’t stop until every bit of Stiles was raw and oversensitive and it was too much.   _Beyond_ too much.

Chris _loved_ him, deeply, darkly, _dangerously_.  Stiles knew, no matter what, Chris wouldn’t be the one to walk away from this.  Stiles held all the cards here and it intimidated the fuck out of him.  For the first time in his life, he felt his age.  He was seventeen-years-old and he had the ability to crush another human being in the palm of his hand.  Who’s to say he wouldn’t do it just because he was bored one day?

He pulled Chris’ head back up so he could press their lips together.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said when they parted.  It was true now but he couldn’t promise it always would be.  Peter had been right about him.  About Kate.  Cruelty ran deep in both of them, Stiles’ was simply unfocused.

Chris watched him for a long moment before saying simply, “I know.”

* * *

When Stiles woke the second time, Chris was gone and he could hear movement on the floor below.  He stretched and slid out of Chris’ bed, surprised he hadn’t been encouraged to run along to his own during the night.  He kicked at his jeans but they were still damp.  Of fucking course.  He pulled on his boxers.  Damp, too, but better than nothing.  He was more bothered by the cold than the wet anyway.

He peeked his head out on the landing and didn’t see Alli in either direction.  He scurried to his room and closed the door tightly behind himself.  He dressed quickly in semi-clean clothes and found his phone on the nightstand.  There was one unread text message, from _Juliet_.  Because they were  _totally_ the Capulets and Montagues.  If Romeo had secretly been fucking his dad and only thought of Juliet as a friend.

 _Tell me you kicked it, the irony of a hunter dying from wolfsbane is almost too poetic to pass up_.

Stiles grinned, texting back:

_Sorry to disappoint.  Still alive and simply too epic to die young._

Stiles didn't even get a chance to put his phone down before two responses flashed up on the screen.

 _Damn_.

     _By the way, tell Argent his promises are much like that Code he follows: complete shit.  Watched the sun rise, and I plan to do it again tomorrow._

Stiles snorted, tossing aside the response that Chris knew how to keep some of his promises and instead shoving his phone in his pant’s pocket and darting across the hall into the bathroom.

He glanced up at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth and froze.  He looked _fucked out_.

His neck and even the skin around the collar of his shirt was red from the drag of Chris’ scruff, and that was only where there weren’t completely unambiguous hickeys sucked into his throat and jaw.  His hair was greasy, stiff and standing on end.  His lips were still redder than usual, a little swollen and a _lot_ tender to the touch.

 _Shit_.

Stiles could only hope Allison wasn’t back yet because there wasn’t much he could do to hide this.  He went downstairs, guts squirming, and rounded the corner into the kitchen where Allison was leaning across the counter and arguing with Chris about where she was last night.

Stiles ignored them both, not meeting anyone’s eyes, as he walked over to the fridge and pulled out the orange juice, intending to drink straight from the carton.

“Glass,” Chris ordered, only sparing him half a glance.

Stiles set the container down carefully while he reached up into the cabinet.  His t-shirt caught on the sticky patches of his stomach where Chris’ come was still caked into his skin.

Alli wolf-whistled.  “Looks like you had fun last night. And yet I’m the only one getting the lecture for not being here,” she said, lifting her eyebrows.  Stiles whipped around but Alli wasn’t staring at the marks on his neck or the distinct finger-drags preserved in the shape of his hair.  Instead her gaze was lower, focusing on where his shirt had ridden up and Stiles looked down.  There were light finger bruises on his hip.  Her grin went sly.  “You should tell Derek to try to restrain himself though,” Stiles watched Chris stiffen, his gaze cutting over to Stiles while Alli added brightly, winking, “Dad looks like he might blow a gasket,” before slipping out of the kitchen.

Stiles heard the front door close behind her and turned, leaning back against the counter, to meet Chris’ heated gaze. “You are so fucked up,” he decided finally, smirking.  They both were.  Stiles bit his lip gently, licking over it even though it caused a flash of pain.  His honey-colored eyes sparkled.  “There’s a part of you that wanted to correct her.  That wanted to throw me down on the table and fuck me right in front of her.”

Chris swallowed, unclenching his hand slowly and letting it rest flat against the counter.  “More than a part,” he admitted after a long moment, voice thin.

Stiles watched him carefully.  He was too fucked up for anything beyond this, at least for now.  Chris would let him be selfish, let him be mean, let him be angry.  He was far from ready to be an equal part in any relationship, not when his half of it was so unstable, and Chris was willing to meet him however far past halfway he had to go – happy with whatever Stiles could manage to cobble together.  Because Chris loved him.  And he wanted him, despite his flaws.  Or maybe because of them.

Stiles sucked his teeth and canted his hips up, making sure Chris could see his half-hard cock pressed tight to the line of his thigh.  "I think it’s time we upgraded the Code, to something you might actually use rather than something you Argents can collectively wipe your asses with.”

Chris stared at him with owlish eyes, wary.  His gaze flicked down and he swallowed painfully.  He looked away.  “And what did you have in mind?”

Stiles jerked his chin up and Chris came to him instantly, as though he’d been waiting for permission.  His large hands smoothed up Stiles’ thighs and he used his thumb to caress his cock in a slow drag before planting his palms on his hips.  Stiles shivered and parted his legs further and Chris eased his thigh between them.  Stiles grinned at him.  “ _Nous restons à nous-mêmes_ ,” he said softly.

Chris’ smile spread over his lips slowly.  “We keep to ourselves.”

Stiles slipped a hand down Chris’ jeans and pressed his palm to his rapidly stiffening dick, a wet patch already forming.  Stiles nipped at his scruffy jaw.  “Glass houses and all that.”  He flicked open the catch of Chris’ pants.  “Because I don’t intend to stop doing this any time soon.”

Chris’ grin was almost violent in its agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> You can sometimes find me [here](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). Not doing anything fun though.


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